•FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

I'Thi'tin  IT  Y'T'lr'TPi  i  TYV/'  ntT/"Vr\ 
HI-'  rKAtfY    SHlIK 

P    i  nC  JLl  1  CIxAlvl    Ol  L\JL 


JAMES  L.FORD 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS  IN 
THE  LITERARY  SHOP 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS  IN 
THE  LITERARY  SHOP 


BY 

JAMES  L.    FORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LITERARY  SHOP," 
"BOHEMIA  INVADED,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
68 1   FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1921 
By  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


First  Printing  .  Oct.  1SS1 
Second  Printing  Nov.  1921 
Third  Printing  .  Dec.  19£1 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


CARTOON  OF  THE  AUTHOR  BY  OLIVER  HERFORD  .  Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

LESTER  WALLACK     .,.,.,*     .     .     .•     .     .     .  14 

PHINEAS  T.  BARNUM     .     „  t   . .  *     .     .     *     .     .     .  14 

LILLIAN  RUSSELL     .     ..,......,..«'.     .  26 

PAULINE  MARKHAM  .     .     •  .  •  .  •     .  ,  .     .     •     .     .  26 

LISA  WEBER  .     .  .•'.'•  .  ......*.  «; '    *     .     .     .  28 

KATE  BATEMAN  ../............     %.    .     .  28 

CENTURY-OLD  INN  ON  WINDHAM  GREEN     ..     •     .     .  38 

WINDHAM  BANK       .....     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  38 

JOSIE  MANSFIELD     ..*...     .     .     ..     .     .  46 

WEBER  AND  FIELDS       .     .  4 .  46 

ANDREW  E.  WATROUS   ...     ..4*     ...  70 

FRANK  R.  STOCKTON     .     «     .     .     ....     .     .  70 

MRS.  G.  H.  GILBERT    .     .  • 94 

KATHERINE  GREY     .     .     *     \     .    '.     .     .   >     .     .  94 

HARRY  KERNELL .     .102 

KITTY  O'NEILL   .     .     .    t.     .    \     ........  102 

FAY  TEMPLETON  .     .     .     ......   ,•»     .     .  108 

TONY  PASTOR  .     .     .     .     ^     .     .108 


•' 


vi  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 
H.   C.   BUNNER 112 

PAUL  DU  CHAILLU 112 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 122 

J.  BRANDER  MATTHEWS 122 

F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 130 

EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN 130 

ADA  LEWIS 166 

HELENA  VON  SCHEVITSCH 166 

"  SlLVERDOLLAR  SMITH*'  '  .     .  *  .  ' 170 

BILLY  GRAY  .     .     ...-.•,•.•.     .     .     .     .170 

HARRY  HILL  .     .     .     .     .  .     .     '.     .     .     .     .172 

JOHN  Y.  McKANE   .     .......     .     .     .172 

MARY  ANDERSON      .........     .     .   192 

KATE  CASTLETON     .     :.     .     .     , '    .     .     ....   192 

"CHICKEN  NIGHT"  AT  MARIA'S   .     .     .     .     .     .     .   206 

CARMENCITA  .     .     .     .-..•.•..',     .     .     .212 

VESTA  TILLY 212 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS  .     .     .     .    '.     .     .     .     .   220 

CHESTER  S.  LORD     ..-..•.•..     .     .     .     .     .   220 

BRENTANO'S  BOOK  STORE  AT  33  UNION  SQUARE    .      .   234 

AUGUST  BRENTANO  .     .     .  •.  .  - .  240 

JOHN  FISKE    .     .     . .     .  240 

CISSY  LOFTUS      .     .  -  .  * 246 

PHYLLIS  RANKIN      .  »  .  - 246 

ELEANORA  DUSE    •  . . ' 250 


ILLUSTRATIONS  vii 

FACING  PAGE 
JOHN  HOLLINGSHEAD 272 

MRS.  LESLIE  CARTER 280 

EDWIN  BOOTH .  •    .     .     .  314 

MRS.    SCGTT-SlDDONS 314 

MRS.  GROVER  CLEVELAND  .     .     .     . 318 

MRS.  MARY  ST.  LEGER  HARRISON    .     .     .     .     .     .318 

GEORGE  ARLISS 330 

JOHNNY  WILD      .     .     .     .     .     .     .     ...     .     .  332 

FRANK  R.  MUNSEY,  BURYING  THE  NEW  YORK  SUN  .  342 
ADA  LEWIS  AS  The  Tough  Girl     .......  350 

EDWARD  KARRIGAN 350 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS  IN 
THE  LITERARY  SHOP 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS  IN  THE 
LITERARY  SHOP 

CHAPTER  I 

TO  those  who  realize  how  slender  is  my  renown,  and 
to  the  much  larger  number  to  whom  my  name  sig 
nifies  nothing,  this  careful  setting  down  of  the  things  I 
remember  may  seem  an  act  of  presumption  and  egotism. 

It  is  true  that  there  is  charm,  interest,  and  even  drama 
in  the  history  of  nearly  every  human  life,  but,  save  in 
rare  cases,  only  when  related  by  someone  else.  He  who 
would  invest  his  personal  records  with  the  quality  of 
interest  must,  first  of  all,  so  gain  the  respect  and  con 
fidence  of  his  fellow-men  that  they  will  await  his  utter 
ances  as  the  final  authority  on  questions  and  events  of 
national  importance.  In  this  spirit  did  the  public  await 
the  autobiography  of  General  Grant. 

Fully  aware  of  all  this  I  hasten  to  assure  my  readers 
that  these  memoirs  of  an  inconspicuous  career  will  not 
deal  with  my  own  accomplishments  but  with  the  men 
and  women  whom  I  have  known  and  the  paths  along 
which  I  have  strayed.  And  I  acknowledge  that  those 
who  follow  my  trail  will  find  themselves  more  often  in 
strange,  even  discreditable,  company  than  among  the 
elect  who  cluster  about  the  seats  of  the  mighty.  Rather 


£  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

would  I  make  my  readers  to  lie  down  in  the  green  pas 
tures  of  literature  and  the  drama,  than  to  lead  them 
beside  the  still  waters  of  those  wellsprings  of  dearly 
loved  misinformation:  Wall  street,  the  Four  Hundred 
and  the  British  aristocracy.  And,  if  my  recital  shall 
serve  to  destroy  any  of  the  myths  born  of  professional 
publicity,  I  shall  be  content  with  my  labors. 

My  determination  to  write  these  memoirs  came  about 
in  this  fashion.  A  disaster,  neither  the  first  nor  the 
worst,  and  I  fear  not  the  last,  of  a  series  that  overtook 
me  during  my  seventh  decade,  brought  me  to  the  operat 
ing  table  in  Roosevelt  Hospital  where  I  heard  the  voice  of 
one  invisible  saying:  "I  am  the  sleep-doctor.  Try  to 
breathe  three  or  four  times  through  this  piece  of  gauze." 
The  fourth  breath  was  superfluous  for  it  needed  only 
the  third  to  bring  me  back  to  my  bed  in  a  private  room, 
free  from  the  pain  that  I  had  endured  for  many  days 
and  dimly  conscious  that  I  was  permanently  crippled. 
Such  is  the  magic  of  modern  surgery.  Then,  with  my 
senses  dulled  by  opiates,  I  entered  upon  a  period  of  rest 
and  peace  to  which  I  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

Although  I  have  always  loved  life  and  contemplated 
with  dread  its  inevitable  finish,  I  now  found  myself 
strangely  indifferent  to  the  fact,  which  I  fully  realized, 
that  another  week  might  find  me  lying  where  lie  the  kin 
whom  I  have  best  loved,  their  faces  turned  toward  the 
East  as  demanded  by  ancient,  pious  custom,  there  to 
await  that  which  no  man  can  foretell.  For  after  all  I 
had  nearly  run  out  my  course,  and  there  remained  to 
me  at  best  but  a  few  more  of  the  years  allotted  by  the 
Psalmist. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  3 

As  the  drug  began  to  lose  its  force,  I  found  it  pleas- 
anter  to  turn  my  thoughts  away  from  the  uncertain 
future  and  follow  them  back  through  the  changing  years 
to  past  joys,  to  the  friends  who  had  helped  me  over 
the  rough  places,  to  everything  that  had  made  life  worth 
the  living.  And  it  was  while  thus  idly  brooding  that  a 
desire,  vaguely  cherished  for  many  years,  to  set  down 
some  of  the  events,  experiences  and  impressions  of 
bygone  days,  renewed  itself  in  my  mind. 

The  period  of  convalescence  in  a  hospital  is  not  with 
out  its  compensations,  one  of  which  is  the  getting  better 
and  better  as  the  days  roll  on  instead  of  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  Slough  of  Despond.  My  door  never 
opened  save  to  admit  someone  I  was  glad  to  see,  and  of 
the  many  tried  friends  whom  I  had  reason  to  expect,  few 
failed  me,  while  many,  whom  I  had  regarded  as  mere 
acquaintances,  gladdened  me  by  their  generous  sympathy. 
The  rector  and  curate  of  a  church  in  which  I  had  never 
set  foot,  came  more  than  once,  and  one  afternoon  I 
awoke  to  see  close  beside  my  bed  the  kindly  face  and 
grizzled  beard  of  my  old  school  room-mate.  Gifts  of 
flowers,  fruit  and  cigarettes  soon  made  the  place  look 
like  a  prima  donna's  dressing  room  and  did  much  to 
dispel  a  long  ingrained  suspicion  that  women  are  in 
capable  of  gratitude.  To  recite  the  number  and  quality 
of  my  visitors  would  be  to  confess  myself  eaten  with 
the  resultant  vanity — a  secret  best  locked  in  my  own 
bosom. 

But  it  was  not  vanity  that  prompted  me  to  begin  my 
story  with  this  sorrowful  recital,  but  a  desire  to  show 
how  my  misfortune  gave  me  a  new  and  more  kindly 


4  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

perspective  through  which  to  look  back  over  the  sixty 
odd  years  of  my  journeying. 

Viewed  through  this  new  perspective  the  shifting 
decades  offer  a  long  vista,  dim  in  sundry  places  but  shin 
ing  brightly  at  its  furthest  end  on  a  wide,  shady  garden 
where,  under  wise  and  loving  parental  guidance  I  had  a 
little  sister  to  play  with  and  a  kind  elder  brother  to 
kick  me  when  I  tried  to  be  funny. 


I  was  born  in  St.  Louis  but  what  I  like  to  call  my 
"career"  did  not  begin  in  earnest  until  I  was  four  years 
old  and  we  came  to  live  in  a  large,  rambling  wooden 
house  on  Clinton  Avenue,  in  Brooklyn.  I  still  retain 
a  vivid  recollection  of  the  tree-shaded  street,  the  houses, 
many  of  which  are  still  standing,  set  in  deep  gardens, 
the  little  boys  with  whom  I  played,  and  St.  Luke's 
Church,  with  the  gravestones  before  its  door.  Thither 
we  children  were  led  on  Sundays,  and  in  the  rectory  I 
went  to  school  a  few  years  later.  The  rector  of  the 
church  was  Dr.  Jacob  Diller  and  his  daughter  was  my 
teacher.  Both  were  lost  in  the  burning  of  the  steamboat 
Seawanhaka  in  1880. 

My  father  was  led  to  settle  in  Brooklyn  through  a 
previous  enterprise  of  a  cousin  of  his  whom  we  children 
called  "Uncle  Hobart"  and  of  whose  kindly  nature  and 
liberal  hand  I  still  retain  most  agreeable  memories.  In 
the  late  forties  Uncle  Hobart  came  to  New  York,  having 
failed  in  business  in  Rochester,  put  up  at  the  old  New 
York  Hotel  and  then  proceeded  to  study  the  commercial 
aspects  of  the  city.  He  walked  down  Broadway  to  Wall 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  5 

Street  and  thence  to  the  East  River  where  he  stood  look 
ing  over  to  the  shores  of  Brooklyn.  The  harbor  was 
white  with  sails,  for  the  freight  traffic  of  the  world  had 
not  then  passed  into  the  hands  of  steamship  companies, 
and  he  was  at  once  impressed  with  the  value  of  certain 
unoccupied  portions  of  the  water  front.  Having  selected 
the  most  desirable  warehouse  site  within  his  range  of 
vision,  he  crossed  the  river,  sought  out  its  owner,  and 
eventually  persuaded  him  to  build  Ford's  Stores,  now 
Prentice's  Stores,  directly  south  of  Wall  Street  Ferry, 
and  to  allow  him  to  pay  for  them  from  their  profits.  In 
a  few  years  he  was  accounted  a  rich  man  and  induced 
my  father  to  lease  the  warehouses  on  the  other  side  of 
the  ferry  entrance,  known  to  this  day  as  Pierrepont 
Stores. 

My  early  impressions  of  Brooklyn  and  New  York  are 
still  clear  in  my  mind.  The  Ridgewood  Reservoir  was 
then  in  process  of  construction  under  Mr.  Kirkwood,  a 
friend  of  my  father's  from  his  civil  engineering  days, 
and  I  recall  one  Sunday,  before  the  water  was  turned  in, 
when  we  three  walked  across  its  bed.  There  was  not  a 
single  house  in  Brooklyn  that  contained  a  bath-room  and 
the  first  time  I  ever  saw  one  I  regarded  it  as  a  novel  and 
imposing  spectacle.  Every  block  had  its  pump  from 
which  all  the  families  supplied  themselves,  and  well-to-do 
residents  kept  their  own  cows,  even  in  such  fashionable 
quarters  as  the  Heights.  The  best  mode  of  transit  be 
tween  remote  Harlem  and  the  lower  part  of  New  York 
was  by  a  line  of  steamboats  bearing  such  names  as  The 
Sylvan  Grove  and  The  Sylvan  Shore,  and  on  one  occa 
sion  we  devoted  a  whole  day  to  a  visit  to  some  family 


6  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

friends  named  Bartow  who  lived  in  a  gray  farmhouse  in 
a  country  neighborhood  which  I  judge  was  not  far  from 
what  is  now  the  corner  of  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
fifth  Street  and  the  Boulevard. 

Communication  between  New  York  and  Brooklyn  was 
by  means  of  ferry-boats,  and  those  of  Wall  Street  Ferry 
carried  the  most  aristocratic  company,  for  they  drained 
the  Heights,  where  dwelt  such  families  as  the  Lows, 
the  Lymans,  the  McLeans,  the  Whites,  the  Frothing- 
hams  and  the  Pierreponts.  The  Academy  of  Music,  the 
Park  Theatre,  and  Hooley's  Minstrels  were  the  only 
places  of  amusement  that  I  can  recall,  and  of  these,  the 
last  named  was  the  most  prosperous,  sharing  with  an 
"Eagle"  writer  who  signed  himself  "Corry  O'Lanus," 
the  duty  of  supplying  the  town  with  humor. 

In  New  York  there  were  still  several  families  of  dis 
tinction  to  be  found  on  the  Battery  and  on  the  south 
side  of  Bowling  Green,  and  the  young  men  who  made 
New  Year's  calls  began  their  day's  work  there  and  ended 
it  not  far  from  Thirty-fourth  Street.  That  annual  feast 
day  was  always  hailed  with  delight  by  boys  of  my  age 
for  we  journeyed  from  house  to  house  and  gorged  our 
selves  at  every  one  of  the  well  spread  tables.  The  custom 
was  an  excellent  one  so  long  as  the  city  remained  small 
enough  to  continue  it.  To  this  day  I  remember  it  in  con 
nection  with  pickled  oysters,  a  dish  that,  like  the  annual 
occasion  that  provided  it,  has  long  since  fallen  into 
desuetude. 

We  had  not  been  long  in  Clinton  Avenue  before  my 
education  was  begun  under  the  wise  direction  of  my 
grandmother,  who  taught  me  by  a  method  still  unsur- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  7 

passed  by  that  of  any  pedagogic  institution  that  I  know 
of.  I  received  two  peppermints  if  I  learned  my  lesson 
and  two  raps  on  the  side  of  the  head  if  I  did  not,  and 
under  this  healthful  stimulus  I  advanced  rapidly  into 
the  realms  of  knowledge.  In  later  years  I  have  learned 
many  of  the  bitter  lessons  of  life  at  a  cost  in  suffering 
far  greater  than  any  endured  under  that  venerable  lady's 
knuckles. 

My  grandmother  was  born  in  1790  and  her  mind  was 
rich  in  memories  of  years  long  past,  so  that  my  early 
influences  were  those  of  the  days  when  the  nation  was 
young.  My  grandfather,  twenty  years  her  senior,  had 
been  a  member  of  Congress,  and  his  father,  a  friend  of 
Washington's,  had  been  at  one  time  President  of  the 
Senate.  Grandma  often  told  me  how  her  husband  had 
long  looked  forward  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  father's 
promise  that  he  should  one  day  pay  a  visit  to  Mt.  Vernon, 
but  it  was  not  until  he  had  reached  his  thirtieth  year 
that  he  set  out  on  horseback  from  his  New  Hampshire 
home  for  the  Capitol,  carrying  his  effects  in  his  saddle 
bags.  Bitter  was  his  disappointment  when,  on  his  ar 
rival  in  Washington,  he  was  greeted  with  the  news  of 
the  General's  death.  Another  anecdote  of  my  grand 
mother's  I  have  never  seen  printed.  During  his  years 
of  circuit  riding,  in  company  with  other  lawyers  and 
judges,  grandfather  was  wont  to  stop  with  an  inn- 
keeping  farmer  who  had  an  unusually  bright  boy,  and 
it  was  largely  through  my  forebear's  influence  and  that 
of  Jeremiah  Mason,  a  Portsmouth  lawyer,  that  the  inn 
keeper  was  induced  to  send  his  son  to  college  and  thus 
give  him  a  start  in  the  world.  Afterward  this  boy, 


8  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Daniel  Webster,  pleaded  his  first  cause  before  my  grand 
father,  then  holding  court  at  Plymouth,  New  Hampshire, 
and  I  believe  the  building  is  pointed  out  to  strangers  to 
this  day. 

Another  story  of  Webster  that  my  grandmother  told 
me,  related  to  a  time  when,  as  a  law  student  in  Ports 
mouth,  New  Hampshire,  he  boarded  with  a  family  of 
education  and  refinement,  whose  manners  were  greatly 
superior  to  his  own.  The  young  son  pitied  Daniel,  whose 
intellect  he  had  already  come  to  respect,  and  suggested 
to  his  mother  a  scheme  for  improving  his  table  manners 
without  hurting  his  feelings.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
gladly  agreed  to  do  what  she  could  and  the  plan  was 
worked  out  in  this  fashion.  The  son  would  violate,  in 
some  simple  fashion,  the 'family  code  of  etiquette,  by 
holding  his  fork  improperly  or  by  resting  his  elbow  on 
the  table ;  then  his  mother  would  rebuke  him  while  both 
would  take  care  not  to  notice  young  Webster  in  any  way. 
In  this  fashion,  the  embryo  statesman  was  enabled  to 
correct  every  one  of  his  faults  and  in  no  case  did  he 
fail  to  take  advantage  of  the  lesson  thus  tactfully  given. 

We  had  at  least  two  celebrities  in  our  family,  Major 
Rogers,  the  Indian  ranger,  of  whom  my  grandmother 
always  spoke  bitterly  because  he  became  a  Tory;  and  a 
cousin  of  my  mother's  called  Harriet  Livermore  whom 
she  and  other  members  of  her  family  regarded  as  an  in 
fernal  nuisance.  Rogers'  Leap,  in  the  Lake  George  dis 
trict,  is  still  pointed  out  as  the  place  from  which  the 
Major  escaped  from  pursuing  savages. 

Harriet  Livermore,  whom  the  poet  Whittier  has  cele 
brated  in  "Snow  Bound,"  was  an  eccentric  and  highly 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  9 

gifted  woman  who  once  preached  before  both  houses  of 
Congress,  and  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  women  were  ex 
pected  to  hold  their  tongues.  She  had  traveled  in  the 
Far  East  at  a  time  when  few  Americans  made  such 
journeys  and  had  lived  with  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  until 
the  two  quarreled  over  a  horse  on  which  each  one  desired 
to  ride  when  the  Messiah  should  appear.  On  her  return 
to  this  country,  Miss  Livermore  paid  a  visit  to  her  rela 
tives  in  Plymouth  and  talked  so  entertainingly  of  her  ex 
periences  that  the  neighbors  came  to  listen  and  were 
quite  delighted  when  she  offered  to  give  a  free  lecture 
in  the  village  church. 

Now  Harriet  Livermore  had  a  violent  temper,  in  which 
respect  she  was  not  alone  in  the  family,  and  as  she  began 
her  lecture  some  one  on  entering  the  church  left  the  door 
open  and  she  promptly  requested  him  to  shut  it.  As 
others  repeated  the  offense  she  became  almost  frantic 
with  rage  until  at  last  my  uncle  took  up  the  post  of  door 
keeper  in  the  hope  of  staying  her  wrath.  But  a  far 
greater  mortification  was  in  store  for  her  relatives,  who 
had  always  thought  pretty  well  of  themselves.  At  the 
close  of  her  discourse  the  lecturer  said  that  she  now 
supported  herself  by  selling  a  certain  brand  of  pills  and 
she  thought  that  every  one  who  had  kept  that  door  open 
should  buy  at  least  one  box  of  the  nostrum,  whose  effi 
cacy  she  dwelt  upon  in  no  uncertain  voice. 

Grandma  always  brought  her  recital  of  this  episode 
to  a  close  in  these  words :  "And  from  that  day  to  this, 
I  have  never  had  a  moment's  peace  for  fear  Harriet 
Livermore  would  find  out  where  we  were  living  and 
come  and  make  us  a  visit." 


10  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

On  the  wall  of  our  drawing-room  in  Clinton  Avenue 
there  hung,  and  still  hangs  over  my  own  fireplace,  a 
portrait  of  my  great-grandmother,  painted  in  Ports 
mouth  by  a  youth  of  eighteen,  John  Singleton  Copley. 
I  used  to  regard  that  portrait  with  awe  because  no  matter 
into  what  corner  of  the  room  I  crept,  its  eyes  persist 
ently  followed  me,  a  constant  reminder  of  the  all-seeing 
eyes  of  God.  Once,  when  I  had  stolen  some  sugar  from 
the  bowl,  I  was  afraid  to  look  it  in  the  face  and  con 
sumed  my  plunder  in  another  room.  My  grandmother, 
who  owned  the  picture  and  on  her  death  bequeathed  it 
to  me,  had  received  what  was  considered  a  very  fine 
education  in  her  girlhood,  but  which  did  not  go  further 
than  a  training  in  the  so-called  "accomplishments"  then 
deemed  essential  to  polite  life.  She  was  taught  to  play 
on  the  first  piano  brought  into  her  native  state  and  to 
sing  such  songs  as  "Life  Let  Us  Cherish,"  which  she 
used  to  render  in  her  later  years  in  a  sweet,  quavering 
voice  to  her  own  accompaniment.  She  was  also  taught 
to  use  water  colors,  and  I  still  have  a  specimen  of  her 
work  in  the  shape  of  a  single  flower  painted  on  a  small 
piece  of  card-board.  Such  art  seems  naive  to  the  point 
of  absurdity  now,  yet  a  dozen  of  these  flowers  were 
painted  by  her  for  the  Brooklyn  Sanitary  Fair  in  the 
sixties  and  there  viewed  with  profound  respect  by  local 
connoisseurs. 

Of  the  many  changes  that  mark  the  contrast  between 
the  life  and  customs  of  those  far  off  days  and  those  of 
the  present  year  of  grace  none  is  more  radical  or  strik 
ing  than  those  wrought  by  the  entrance  of  women  into 
fields  of  activity  formerly  occupied  exclusively  by  men, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  11 

and  the  manner  in  which  the  acquisition  of  polite  "ac 
complishments"  has  given  way  to  practical  training  in 
useful,  bread-winning  crafts.  The  position  of  a  young 
girl  of  fifty  or  more  years  ago  who  found  herself  obliged 
to  earn  her  own  living  seems  pitiful  to  me  now.  Medi 
cine  and  the  law  were  closed  to  her,  commerce  had  but 
little  to  offer  and  even  as  late  as  the  eighties,  Miss  Midy 
Morgan,  who  covered  the  horse  and  cattle  market  for 
the  Times,  was  the  only  reporter  of  her  sex  employed  on 
a  New  York  newspaper.  To  become  an  actress  was  to 
lose  social  caste,  and  besides,  the  theatre  was  recruited 
almost  entirely  from  professional  families.  Neither  the 
trained  nurse  nor  the  stenographer  had  appeared  on  the 
horizon,  and  the  young  woman  whose  circumstances  I 
have  indicated  was  obliged  to  choose  between  needle 
work  and  teaching.  I  am  reminded  of  all  this  by 
memory  of  a  relative  of  ours,  a  finely  educated  and  dis 
tinctly  intellectual  woman  whose  temperament  and  am 
bition  unfitted  her  for  the  age  in  which  she  lived.  Young 
as  I  was,  I  could  not  but  be  conscious  that  she  was  in 
a  state  of  chronic  revolt  against  something,  I  knew  not 
what.  I  know  now  that  it  was  the  rebellion  of  a  mind 
confident  of  its  own  power  against  the  conservatism  and 
prejudices  of  an  illiberal  age  that  wore  her  down  into 
an  early  grave. 

Traditions  of  another  sort  came  to  us  children  through 
our  nurse,  an  Irishwoman,  the  daughter  of  a  Peninsular 
veteran  and  the  widow  of  a  Scotch  sergeant,  herself  a 
Fitzgerald  of  sufficient  distinction  to  have  a  banshee  in 
the  family.  Her  father  had  been  one  of  the  guard 
detailed  to  bury  Sir  John  Moore  and  she  assured  us  many 


12  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

a  time  that  they  actually  dug  the  grave  with  theii  bay 
onets  "just  as  it  says  in  the  poem."  The  appearance  of 
the  banshee  "whisking  around  the  corner"  and  thus  pre 
saging  the  passing  of  some  elderly  relative,  was  also  a 
matter  of  frequent  recital  in  our  nursery. 

So  impressed  were  we  with  the  fame  of  the  paternal 
warrior  that  in  our  nursery  game,  "Think  of  a  Great 
Man,"  "Alice's  Father,"  stood  on  an  equal  plane  with 
Washington  and  Napoleon  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  was 
a  better  soldier  than  many  of  greater  renown. 

In  more  recent  years  I  have  often  heard  silly  women 
discuss,  without  shame,  in  the  presence  of  their  innocent 
off-spring,  the  information  they  have  gained  from  the 
Sunday  papers  regarding  the  "Four  Hundred,"  and  I 
have  recalled  with  heartfelt  gratitude  the  more  whole 
some  influences  that  helped  to  shape  our  infant  minds. 

I  am  quite  in  accord  with  somebody — I  think  it  was 
Sidney  Smith — who  said  that  the  man  who  talked  about 
his  ancestors  was  "like  a  potato,  the  best  part  of  him 
underground,"  and  I  confess  that  the  simile  fits  my 
case;  indeed  I  am  proud  to  say  that  a  truthful  biography 
of  more  than  one  of  my  forebears  would  reflect  much 
greater  credit  on  the  family  name  than  will  the  memoirs 
on  which  I  have  embarked.  Moreover  my  rather  exten 
sive  reading  of  autobiography  has  taught  me  that  the 
dullest  are  those  that  harp  the  most  persistently  on  the 
author's  family,  so  I  shall  say  nothing  further  of  mine 
in  the  pages  yet  to  come.  But  in  describing  any  journey 
it  is  necessary  to  describe  the  point  of  departure,  and  I 
deem  it  not  boastful  to  show  that  I  began  my  wander 
ings  through  the  many  strata  of  New  York's  social  struc- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  13 

ture  from  a  starting  point  of  old-fashioned  American 
conservatism  of  a  kind  that  foreigners  do  not  believe 
exists  here,  and  with  a  mind  equipped  with  traditions 
handed  down  through  many  generations  of  long-settled, 
God-fearing,  English-speaking  stock.  And  not  even  the 
strange  company  that  I  have  kept  from  time  to  time  has 
robbed  me  of  my  inheritance,  although  the  seeking  of 
that  company  was  prompted  by  the  wanderlust  so  often 
born  of  conservatism. 

Now  and  then  we  children  were  taken  to  Coney  Island, 
then  a  waste  of  white  sand  with  a  few  sheds  and  bath 
ing  houses  and  one  or  two  old-fashioned  hotels.  It  was 
a  strictly  family  resort  then,  for  Norton's  Point,  at  the 
western  end  of  the  island,  had  not  become  the  community 
of  thugs  and  bounty- jumpers  that  it  was  during  the 
war.  When  I  went  to  visit  my  cousin  Simeon  on  Rem- 
sen  Street,  we  played  in  what  was  called  "Mike's  lot," 
which  occupied  the  greater  part  of  a  block  between  Rem- 
sen,  Hicks  and  Montague  Streets.  One  of  my  playmates 
was  Seth  Low  and  the  portrait  of  another  companion 
of  my  early  youth  may  be  found  in  the  Rogue's  Gallery. 

What  is  now  Bedford  Avenue  was  a  way  station  on 
the  Long  Island  Railroad,  whose  cars  then  ran  to  South 
Ferry,  passing  through  a  tunnel  near  Clinton  Street. 
Sometimes  our  nurse  took  us  out  to  some  Irish  friends 
in  Bedford  where  we  were  surreptitiously  fed  on  sweets 
of  a  forbidden  sort. 

A  still  greater  treat  was  afforded  us  by  occasional  visits 
to  Barnum's  Museum  at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and 
Ann  Street,  where  we  gazed  with  wonder  on  the  "What- 
is-it,"  and  "Woolly  Horse,"  the  cage  of  drugged  animals 


14  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

called  the  Happy  Family  and,  most  diverting  of  all,  the 
"Cherry  Colored  Cat" — which  proved  to  be  of  the  hue 
of  a  black  cherry  and  still  abides  with  me  as  a  precious 
memory.  The  Museum  contained  a  theatre,  called,  in 
deference  to  religious  prejudice,  a  lecture  room,  and 
thither  we  were  led  one  afternoon  to  see  a  representa 
tion  of  the  great  moral  and  instructive  Biblical  drama, 
"Joseph  and  his  Brethren."  But  when,  at  the  close  of 
the  first  act,  a  short-skirted  ballet-dancer  appeared  on 
the  scene  we  were  led  forth,  howling  lustily,  by  the  pious 
aunt  who  had  us  in  charge. 

Phineas  Taylor  Barnum  was  probably  the  greatest 
showman  this  country  has  ever  seen,  great  because  he 
knew  the  American  public  thoroughly  and  kept  its  tastes 
and  prejudices  uppermost  in  his  mind  as  a  guiding  star 
in  everything  that  he  undertook.  Of  the  many  managers 
who  have  ended  in  bankruptcy  within  my  memory  nearly 
every  one  failed  because  he  allowed  his  own  taste  to 
supersede  that  of  his  public.  Barnum  was,  moreover, 
a  master  of  the  science  of  publicity :  his  public  utterances 
never  failed  to  draw  attention  to  his  Museum  and  some 
of  them  were  so  impressive  as  to  become  immortal.  His 
saying  that  the  "public  loves  to  be  humbugged"  is  still 
echoing  down  the  corridors  of  time  and  has  brought  dis 
aster  to  many  who  have  taken  it  too  literally.  For 
Barnum  himself  never  humbugged  his  public,  but  gave 
a  full  measure  of  entertainment  to  everybody  who  paid 
for  admission  at  his  door.  From  the  stage  of  his  "lec 
ture  room"  went  forth  to  win  wider  renown  many  great 
entertainers.  The  inimitable  G.  L.  Fox  was  a  graduate 
of  the  Museum,  as  were  Tony  Pastor,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


w  a 
3<*> 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  15 

Barney  Williams,  George  Ketchum,  and  Hutchins,  the 
Lightning  Calculator,  known  to  later  generations  as  the 
most  distinguished  member  of  a  profession  now  extinct 
— that  of  the  dime  museum  lecturer. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  admit  that  Hutchins'  fervid 
oratory  from  museum  platforms  thrilled  me  even  more 
than  had  the  mathematical  feats  that  had  dazzled  my 
youthful  mind.  Less  than  five  feet  in  height  and  hold 
ing  himself  so  proudly  erect  that  he  seemed  to  "rake 
aft,"  as  sailors  say,  he  would  make  an  hourly  pilgrim 
age  through  the  museum  with  the  rabble  at  his  heels  held 
spell-bound  by  his  impressive  discourse.  It  was  he  who 
from  an  inexhaustible  vocabulary  chose  the  few  simple 
words  that  aptly  indicated  the  sufferings  of  the  "Tattooed 
Man"  under  the  decorating  needle:  "Ninety  thousand 
stabs  and  for  every  stab  a  tear!" 

The  peroration  with  which  he  invariably  brought  his 
discourse  to  a  close  in  tones  of  solemn  import,  rendered 
doubly  impressive  by  an  uplifted  hand,  still  remains  in 
my  memory:  "And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  will 
return  to  your  homes  and  seek  needful  repose  with  minds 
filled  with  awe  at  the  wonders  that  a  beneficent  Creator 
and  a  liberal  management  have  placed  before  you  for 
the  low  sum  of  ten  cents.  But  whatever  you  may  think 
regarding  the  stupendous  aggregation  of  curiosities  as 
sembled  in  this  museum  for  your  entertainment  and  en 
lightenment,  you  may  go  to  your  beds  knowing  that  all 
I  have  said  to  you  is  the  eternal  and  everlasting  truth. 
I  believe  the  Fat  Lady  has  a  few  photographs  to  sell; 
ten  cents  each." 

In  Judge  Daly's  life  of  his  brother  Augustin  Daly, 


16  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

there  is  a  reference  that  I  doubt  if  anyone  in  New  York 
save  myself  understands.  Kate  Bateman  in  writing  to 
Mr.  Daly  says:  "The  next  time  you  are  in  Washington 
Avenue"  and  the  line  brought  to  my  memory  the  days 
when  the  Batemans  lived  there  and  the  boys,  Harry  and 
Dick,  were  the  constant  companions  of  my  elder  brother 
and  myself.  They  were  the  first  theatre  folk  that  I 
ever  knew.  Kate  and  her  sister  Ellen  had  played  for 
years  as  the  "Bateman  Children"  and  the  former  had 
become  an  adult  actress  of  great  distinction.  The  first 
time  I  ever  visited  the  theatre  was  to  see  her  as  Pauline 
in  "The  Lady  of  Lyons"  and  it  was  on  this  occasion 
that  I  assisted  in  a  work  in  which  later  in  life  I  became 
quite  proficient,  namely,  that  of  "papering"  a  house  with 
free  tickets  for  a  first  night's  performance. 

Harry  Bateman  came  to  our  house  that  morning  with 
a  number  of  these  tickets  for  distribution.  Each  one 
was  marked  by  means  of  a  cork  slashed  in  ingenuous 
fashion  and  dipped  in  lamp-black,  for  it  was  in  this 
manner  that  it  was  customary  to  prevent  the  printer 
from  holding  out  a  supply  for  himself.  For  my  serv 
ices  in  delivering  these  tickets  to  friends  in  the  neigh 
borhood  I  was  allowed  to  see  the  performance  in  com 
pany  with  my  brother.  In  later  years  the  elder  Bateman 
established  Irving  at  the  London  Lyceum  Theatre  and 
also  brought  French  opera  bouffe  to  New  York  in  the 
late  Sixties.  Kate  became  the  wife  of  Dr.  Crowe  and 
Ellen  married  an  Italian  named  Greppo  who,  I  believe, 
introduced  the  silk  business  into  Paterson.  One  of  the 
younger  sisters  became  the  mother  of  the  writer  who 
signs  himself  Compton  Mackenzie;  Harry  died  in  India 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  17 

many  years  ago ;  and  Dick  perished  at  sea  while  on  his 
way  to  Japan.  The  whole  family  were  regular  attend 
ants  at  St.  Luke's  Church. 

I  was  five  years  old  when  we  children  began  to  hear 
from  the  lips  of  our  elders  mention  of  a  man  named 
Lincoln,  whose  speech  in  Cooper  Union  had  provoked 
much  discussion.     Many  years  afterward  I  chanced  to 
learn  that  that  speech,  whose  consequences  were  so  far- 
reaching,  was  the  result  of  his  son's  failure  to  pass  a 
scholastic    examination.      It    happened    in    this    wise. 
Robert  T.  Lincoln  had  come  from  his  Illinois  home  with 
the  intention  of  entering  Harvard  College  and  had  failed 
in  his  examinations.     His  father  was  much  distressed 
and,  although  money  was  by  no  means  plentiful  with 
him,  he  determined  to  go  to  the  boy's  assistance  and  ac 
cordingly  made  the  journey  to  Cambridge.    While  there, 
one  of  the  committee  then  arranging  for  the  great  Cooper 
Union  meeting  suggested  the  propriety  of  inviting  Mr. 
Lincoln,  whom  he  had  once  listened  to  in  the  West, 
to  address  the  assembly,  and  the  invitation  was  promptly 
sent.     Lincoln  would  not  have  gone  to  the  expense  of 
journeying  all  the  way  from  his  home  to  New  York  in 
order  to  make  one  brief  speech,  but  as  the  metropolis 
could  be  reached  on  his  way  back  from  Cambridge  he 
decided  to  stop  there,  although  he  feared  that  his  own 
oratory  would  be  overshadowed  by  the  superior  eloquence 
of   the   many   distinguished   men   whose   presence   was 
expected. 

A  gentleman  who  is  still  living  in  New  York  has  de 
scribed  to  me  that  Cooper  Union  meeting  at  which  he 
himself  was  present.  So  little  was  Mr.  Lincoln  then 


18  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

known  in  the  East  that  William  Cullen  Bryant,  the  pre 
siding  officer,  introduced  him  in  the  following  words: 
"We  shall  next  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from 
Mr.  Abraham  Lincoln  of  Illinois,  of  whom  some 
of  you  have  undoubtedly  heard."  There  were  indeed 
some  present  in  the  hall  who  had  heard  of  Mr.  Lincoln 
and  his  championship  of  abolition,  and  for  several 
minutes  a  storm  of  howls  and  hisses  prevented  him  from 
speaking.  But,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  even  noisier 
demonstrations  of  the  border  states,  he  remained  quietly 
awaiting  a  chance  to  make  himself  heard.  Then  he  began 
to  speak,  and  at  the  end  of  that  speech,  which  placed  the 
Presidential  nomination  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  many 
of  those  who  had  tried  to  howl  him  down  rushed  for 
ward  to  grasp  him  by  that  hand. 


M 


CHAPTER  II 

'E  AN  WHILE  the  war  clouds  were  gathering,  and 
-  the  attack  on  Harper's  Ferry,  which  my  father, 
though  a  strong  abolitionist,  bitterly  deplored  as  a 
wanton  act,  presaged  the  coming  storm.  Sumter  was 
fired  on  and  family  friends  began  to  appear  in  uniform. 
Very  soon  troops  were  hurrying  to  the  front  and  a  little 
later  we  children  were  set  to  picking  lint  for  the  hos 
pitals;  that  is  to  say  unravelling  small  squares  of  linen, 
to  be  done  up  in  small  bundles  for  the  dressing  of  wounds. 
Meanwhile  Colonel  Julius  W.  Adams,  a  constant  visitor 
at  our  house,  had  organized  the  First  Long  Island  Regi 
ment  and  gone  south  with  my  uncle  Edwin  on  his  staff. 
New  York  was  ablaze  with  excitement,  the  echoes  of 
which  reached  our  quiet  avenue.  The  present  site  of 
the  downtown  New  York  Post  Office  was  occupied  by 
great  wooden  barracks,  and  speculation  in  gold  ran  so 
high  that  the  brokers  held  a  sort  of  night  exchange  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel.  As  the  war  went  on  many  of  the 
private  schools  went  into  uniform,  the  Polytechnic  boys 
in  blue  and  those  of  the  Brooklyn  Heights  Institute, 
where  I  was  studying,  in  gray.  Our  drill  master  was 
the  French  teacher,  Captain  Veiller,  a  Crimean  veteran 
and  we  drilled  in  French  as  well  as  in  English.  Our 
captain  was  Archie  Brasher,  afterward  well  known  in 
Park  Row.  The  military  discipline  was  an  admirable 

19 


20  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

thing  for  us  all,  and  I  have  always  .believed  that  our 
militia  should  be  organized  in  the  public  schools,  if  for 
no  better  reason  than  to  subject  the  boys  to  the  dis 
cipline  which  is  most  cryingly  needed  at  the  present  day. 
The  war  feeling  was,  as  I  recall  it,  far  more  bitter 
than  that  which  we  have  lately  experienced  and  it  ex 
tended  to  the  children.  The  North  was  full  of  Copper 
heads  and  the  feeling  against  slavery  was  by  no  means 
unanimous,  as  the  commercial  side  of  the  question  had 
its  importance.  Many  southern  families  continued  to 
live  north  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  and  many  of 
their  children  were  our  playfellows.  We  used  to  sing 
a  patriotic  song  containing  the  lines 

Oh  how  proud  you  stood  before  me, 
In  your  suit  of  blue 

and  for  the  last  word  the  little  southerners  would  de 
fiantly  shout  "gray."  During  the  war  my  uncle,  Heber 
Livermore,  married  Margie  Boteler,  a  lovely  daughter 
of  Virginia,  and  her  presence  in  our  family  did  much  to 
dissipate  our  childish  belief  that  all  southerners  had 
hoofs  and  horns.  She  had  not  been  with  us  long  before 
I  became  jealous  of  my  uncle. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  excitement  caused  by  the  kill 
ing  of  Lincoln,  nor  the  great  wave  of  popular  indigna 
tion  that  swept  over  the  country  and  for  a  time  seemed 
to  obliterate  all  party  feeling.  New  York  and  Brooklyn 
were  hung  with  black  and  for  days  nothing  else  was 
talked  of.  Years  afterward  I  met  Robert  T.  Lincoln, 
who  said  that  he  had  been  almost  on  the  spot  at  every 
Presidential  assassination.  "I  had  just  returned  from 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  21 

the  army  the  night  that  my  father  was  killed  and,  feeling 
too  tired  to  go  with  him  to  the  theatre,  as  he  wished,  I 
went  to  bed  and  was  sleeping  soundly  when  I  was 
awakened  and  told  of  the  crime.  I  went  at  once  to  the 
house  where  he  lay  and  was  present  when  he  died.  One 
morning,  when  I  was  a  member  of  Garfield's  cabinet, 
I  was  summoned  to  meet  him  at  the  Pennsylvania  Rail 
road  Station  as  he  intended  to  take  a  trip  to  New  York. 
It  was  while  waiting  in  a  side  room  that  I  heard  a  pistol 
shot  and,  filled  with  a  terrible  foreboding,  I  exclaimed, 
The  President  is  shot!'  and  rushed  out  to  find  my 
words  true.  Many  years  later  I  was  on  my  way  east 
from  my  home  in  Chicago,  and  as  the  train  stopped 
before  entering  Buffalo,  the  local  superintendent  of  the 
Pullman  Company,  of  which  I  was  an  official,  came  into 
my  car  to  speak  to  me.  His  first  words  were,  'I  have 
sad  news  for  you'  and  without  waiting  to  hear  more  I 
cried  out,  'Have  they  killed  the  President?'  " 

During  my  childhood  my  taste  for  the  theatre  grew 
steadily,  although  it  was  not  often  in  those  days  that 
children  were  permitted  to  form  the  theatrical  habit.  I 
was  about  eight  years  of  age  when  I  was  taken  to 
Hooley's  Minstrels,  then  the  most  popular  place  of 
amusement  in  Brooklyn.  On  this  occasion  I  heard  Joe 
Emmett  sing,  "Kaiser,  don't  you  want  to  buy  a  dog?" 
and  also  listened  to  that  historic  colloquy  regarding  the 
shipwreck  ending  with,  "You  say  everyone  was  starving 
and  yet  you  were  eating  an  egg.  How  did  that  happen  ?" 
And  then,  "The  ship  lay  to  and  I  got  one."  Yes,  I  heard 
this  at  my  first  minstrel  show  and  also  at  the  last  I  ever 
attended.  Archie  Hughes  was  also  on  the  bill  and  years 


22  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

afterward  a  boy  at  our  boarding-school  used  to  hold  us 
breathless  with  an  account  of  how  he  had  once  actually 
spoken  to  Mr.  Hughes  and  had  made  bold  to  wish  him 
a  successful  season,  for  which  courtesy  the  minstrel  had 
graciously  given  thanks. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  I  first  saw  a  "fright  wig,'' 
the  hair  of  which  could  be  made,  by  the  pulling  of  a 
hidden  spring,  to  stand  on  end  as  if  in  sudden  fright. 
I  noted  also  with  childish  glee  the  workings  of  that  cor 
nerstone  of  acrobatic  stage  humor,  the  "trick  staircase," 
a  collapsible  affair  designed  to  facilitate  the  descent  of 
the  comedian.  Both  these  inventions,  as  I  learned  much 
later  in  life,  came  from  the  brain  of  a  man  who  died 
holding  the  position  of  stage-doorkeeper  at  the  Howard 
Athenaeum  in  Boston,  and  it  was  while  similarly  em 
ployed  in  a  Philadelphia  playhouse  that  Ethelbert  A. 
Marshall,  the  earliest  of  multi-theatre  managers,  ended 
his  days.  That  theatrical  managers  never  died  rich  was 
a  common  saying  in  those  days. 

It  was  during  the  Sixties  that  Mr.  Bateman  appeared 
in  New  York  as  the  manager  of  the  French  Opera  Bouffe 
Company  of  which  Mme.  Tostee  was  the  star.  His  son 
Harry  was  treasurer  of  the  company  and  my  brother 
and  I  were  often  entertained  at  what  is  now  the  Four 
teenth  Street  Theatre,  then  fitted  with  a  circle  of  boxes 
as  became  a  fashionable  resort. 

Opera  bouffe,  which  under  Hortense  Schneider,  led 
the  pace  in  Paris  during  the  closing  years  of  the  Em 
pire,  gained  a  like  vogue  in  New  York  during  the  years 
that  followed  the  Civil  War.  James  Fisk,  Jr.,  who  was 
the  very  embodiment  of  the  Wall  Street  spirit  of  that 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  23 

time,  purchased  the  Grand  Opera  House  and  there  in 
stalled  a  French  company  of  his  own.  His  idea  was  to 
use  the  avant-scene  as  a  place  of  entertainment  for  such 
political  and  financial  friends  as  he  deemed  worthy  of 
propitiation,  and  for  this  purpose  he  constructed  a  green 
room  of  unusual  size  and  luxury  which  is,  I  think,  still 
in  existence.  Many  opera  bouffe  stars  entertained  the 
town  with  greater  or  less  success  after  Tostee  had  shown 
the  way,  but  the  only  enduring  prosperity  was  that  of 
Mme.  Aimee,  who  became  a  nation-wide  favorite  and 
never  failed  to  interpolate  an  English  song,  "As  pretty 
as  a  picture,"  in  her  performance. 

My  early  training,  never  quite  forgotten,  compels  me 
to  give  due  credit  to  the  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
but  I  cannot  blind  myself  altogether  to  the  occasional  in 
terference  of  the  god  of  chance,  to  whom  may  be  traced 
many  of  the  episodes  written  indelibly  on  history's  page. 
The  adroit  handiwork  of  this  deity  brought  together  the 
various  circumstances  that  gave  us  The  Black  Crook 
and  thus  laid  the  foundation  of  the  leg  drama,  whose  in 
fluence  on  the  modern  theatre  cannot  be  overestimated. 

Jarrett  and  Palmer  had  imported  a  large  ballet  with 
costly  and  startling  costumes — they  would  not  be  con 
sidered  startling  now — for  the  grand  opera  in  New 
York,  but  before  they  could  be  displayed  the  Academy  of 
Music  burned  down  and  gave  to  Mr.  Charles  M.  Barras 
the  opportunity  of  his  life.  Barras  was  a  dramatist  and 
his  plight  at  this  time  was  that  of  nearly  every  other 
dramatist  in  this  country.  That  is  to  say,  he  was  roam 
ing  from  theatre  to  theatre  vainly  trying  to  inflict  a  play 
upon  some  unwary  manager.  The  play  on  which  he  had 


24  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

based  his  forlorn  hope  was  an  old-fashioned  melodrama 
of  the  German  school,  rich  in  such  lines  as,  "How  stands 
the  record  of  the  dying  year?"  In  one  of  its  scenes  a 
character  called  Dragonfin  came  shooting  up  through  a 
star  trap,  crying  excitedly :  'There's  blood  on  the  moon ! 
Our  Queen's  in  danger!  Stay!  It's  past!"  How  he 
came  to  observe  the  lunar  phases  from  his  perch  below 
the  earth  no  one  in  the  audience  sought  to  ascertain. 

The  ashes  were  still  smouldering  in  east  Fourteenth 
Street  when  Barras  precipitated  himself  into  the  office 
of  William  Wheatley,  the  manager  of  Niblo's  Garden, 
arid  in  a  few  well  chosen  words  unleashed  the  scheme 
that  was  buzzing  in  his  mind. 

"Jarrett  and  Palmer  have  got  this  ballet  on  their  hands 
and  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it !  Why  not  take  this 
melodrama  of  mine  that  you've  refused  three  times 
already,  change  it  into  a  spectacle  and  put  in  their  ballet 
and  costumes?  Mark  my  words,  the  combination  will 
startle  the  town!" 

Eventually,  this  very  thing  was  accomplished  and  with 
a  result  far  beyond  anything  that  even  the  sanguine 
Barras  could  have  anticipated.  Never  before  had  the 
town  seen  such  an  exhibition  of  legs.  Hoopskirts  or 
"tilters"  as  they  were  termed,  were  then  in  vogue  and 
their  revelations,  some  accidental  and  others  premedi 
tated,  had  stimulated  the  public  interest  in  lower  limbs 
as  they  were  politely  termed.  Nor  did  this  interest  lose 
its  zest  when  the  stockings  of  white  cotton  or  lisle  thread 
were  replaced  first  by  those  with  horizontal  stripes  and 
afterward  by  solid  colors. 

In  The  Black  Crook,  women,  apparently  of  dazzling 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  25 

beauty,  showed  their  legs  frankly  in  silken  tights.  And 
the  date  of  this  initial  display,  September  12,  1866,  is 
marked  with  a  red  letter  in  theatrical  calendars  as  the 
beginning  of  the  great  era  of  the  "leg  show,"  an  era  that 
has  not  yet  come  to  an  end. 

Pauline  Markham  is  so  thoroughly  identified  in  the 
minds  of  old-time  playgoers,  with  the  important  part  of 
Stalacta  that  it  is  generally  supposed  that  she  was  in  the 
original  cast,  whereas  she  did  not  arrive  in  New  York 
until  two  years  later,  when  she  came  as  a  member  of 
Lydia  Thompson's  troupe.  The  original  Stalacta  was 
Annie  Kemp  Bowler;  George  C.  Boniface  was  Rodolphe; 
J.  W.  Blaisdell  was  Count  Wolfenstein  and  Madame 
Bonfanti  was  the  principal  dancer.  Other  dancers  were 
Betty  Rigl,  Rita  Sangalli  and  Rose  Del  Val.  The  Black 
Crook  himself,  a  village  usurer  and  magician,  was  played 
by  an  English  actor,  Arthur  Matthison,  an  uncle  of  Edith 
Wynne  Matthison.  It  would  be  hard  for  the  present 
generation,  accustomed  as  it  is  to  the  generous  exhibi 
tions  of  comic  opera  and  musical  comedy,  to  understand 
the  excitement  created  by  the  production  of  The  Black 
Crook.  At  first  the  audiences  consisted  largely  of  men, 
but  it  was  not  long  before  feminine  curiosity  put  pro 
priety  to  flight  and  women  joined  the  ever-increasing 
throng.  The  first  of  all  "bald  head  rows,"  the  prototype 
of  that  which  glistens  under  the  rays  of  the  Rentz-Santley 
organization,  filled  the  seats  where  the  music  could  be 
heard  most  distinctly,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  record  that 
opera  glasses  were  more  in  use  than  ear-trumpets. 
After  the  fall  of  the  curtain  the  jeunesse  doree,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  vieillessc  of  like  hue,  stormed  the  stage  en- 


26  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

trance,  bearing  gifts  of  myrrh,  honey  and  precious  oint 
ment  in  golden  caskets. 

Never  before  or  since  in  the  history  of  our  stage  has 
such  a  stream  of  costly  offerings  passed  through  the 
stage  door  or  over  the  footlights.  Every  bunch  of 
flowers  was  instantly  torn  to  pieces  by  its  eager  recipient 
to  see  what  it  contained  in  the  way  of  jewelry.  Years 
afterward  Pauline  Markham,  then  playing  her  old  role 
in  a  revival  of  the  piece,  told  me  that  she  had  never  re 
ceived  so  many  valuable  gifts  or  so  many  invitations  to 
supper  as  she  did  after  Richard  Grant  White  had  referred 
in  the  Galaxy  Magazine  to  her  voice  as  "vocal  velvet" 
and  to  her  arms  as  the  lost  ones  of  the  Venus  di  Milo. 

"And,"  she  added  sadly,  "we  thought  it  would  never 
end." 

Meanwhile  the  clergy  were  giving  material  aid  to  the 
box  office  by  their  denunciations  of  the  indecent  dis 
play,  and  there  were  not  a  few  who  deemed  it  their  duty 
to  view  the  performance  themselves — in  an  unostenta 
tious  manner — in  order  to  satisfy  themselves  that  it  was 
as  iniquitous  as  it  was  said  to  be. 

But  it  all  did  end  long  before  the  month  of  March, 
1919,  when  an  old  lady  who  for  some  years  had  occu 
pied  very  humble  lodgings  in  West  Twenty-third  Street 
passed  out  of  this  life.  Known  to  a  few  neighbors  as 
Mrs.  Grant,  there  was  nothing  in  her  manner  of  living 
to  suggest  the  gay  theatric  circles  of  the  Sixties  and  early 
Seventies  in  which  she  had  played  such  a  conspicuous 
part  and  not  until  her  death  did  these  chance  acquaint 
ances  learn  that  she  was  Pauline  Markham  of  The  Black 
Crook. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  27 

Waves  of  the  Crook  tumult  reached  our  boarding- 
school  through  the  lips  of  one  of  the  boys  who  had  wit 
nessed  it  during  the  holidays  and  when  "Vally"  Blacque 
told  us  that  he  had  actually  been  behind  the  scenes  of 
that  spectacle  and  had  seen  the  girls  climbing  to  their 
perches  for  the  grand  transformation  scene,  I,  for  one, 
did  not  believe  him.  I  did  not  think  it  possible  for  any 
mere  schoolboy — no  matter  how  much  older  than  my 
self — to  enter  that  mysterious  region  of  delights. 

The  appearance  of  Lydia  Thompson  at  Wood's 
Museum,  afterward  Daly's  Theatre,  in  September,  1868, 
and  the  various  companies  of  "British  Blondes"  that  fol 
lowed  her,  imparted  a  new  zest  to  the  leg  drama.  Miss 
Thompson  appeared  in  burlesques  that  were  really  en 
tertaining,  supported  by  such  players  as  Rose  Coghlan, 
who  is  still  with  us,  and  a  perennial  delight,  Harry 
Beckett,  later  one  of  the  best  comedians  ever  seen  on  the 
Wallack  stage,  Lisa  Weber  and  Eliza  Weathersby,  who 
lived  to  become  the  first  of  Nat  Goodwin's  several  wives. 
For  years  after  the  first  appearance  of  this  troupe,  bucolic 
visitors  to  New  York  were  wont  to  enquire  as  they  in 
scribed  their  names  on  the  hotel  registers :  "Be  any  of 
them  yaller-legged  Thompson  gals  a-showin'  in  taown 
to-night?"  It  is  believed  that  one  or  two  members  of 
these  earlier  organizations  are  still  roaming  the  mid 
west  with  the  Rentz-Santley  Female  Minstrel  Company, 
a  bit  of  clear  theatrical  amber  in  which  is  imbedded,  and 
clearly  visible  to  the  eye  that  hoary  diversion,  the  skip 
ping-rope  dance,  which  has  come  down  to  us  from  the 
banks  of  the  Euphrates  where  it  was  first  performed 
with  a  strip  of  grapevine. 


28  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Almost  coincident  with  the  creation  of  the  leg  drama 
was  the  appearance  of  a  lyrical  scourge  which  swept 
through  the  country  as  no  other  song  has  before  or 
since.  It  was  whistled,  sung,  played  and  hummed,  even 
by  those  who  could  neither  play  nor  sing,  in  a  manner 
possible  only  to  a  song  written  on  a  few  notes.  In  the 
bringing  upon  us  of  this  pestilence  we  note  another 
example  of  the  god  of  chance's  handiwork.  The  author 
ship  of  this  idiotic  lyric  has  been  variously  attributed, 
but  on  the  authority  of  Colonel  T.  Allston  Brown,  whose 
accuracy  in  matters  of  theatrical  history  is  undisputed, 
I  have  been  able  to  fix  the  blame  where  it  rightly 
belongs.  T.  Brigham  Bishop,  who  had  previously  led 
a  blameless  life  as  the  author  of  many  of  the  most  popu 
lar  sentimental,  humorous,  and  patriotic  ballads  of  those 
minstrelsy  days,  went  to  the  war  in  command  of  a  com 
pany  of  colored  soldiers.  One  day  he  happened  to  hear 
one  of  his  sable  warriors  reply  to  an  inquiry  in  regard 
to  his  health:  "I'se  feelin'  jus'  like  a  mo'nin  star."  To 
which  the  other  responded :  "I'se  feelin'  like  a  frog 
that's  done  lost  he  ma!"  And  then  a  disgusted  listener 
exclaimed:  "Shoo  fly,  don't  bother  me!" 

The  brief  colloquy  served  as  an  inspiration  to  Bishop, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  crowds  began  to  gather  about 
his  camp  to  hear  the  darkies  singing  the  new  ballad,  just 
as  still  larger  crowds  gathered  later  to  hear  Dan  Bryant 
sing  it  in  New  York. 

It  remained  for  Edward  E.  Rice  to  "keep  alight  the 
sacred  lamp  of  burlesque,"  as  John  Hollingshead  once 
said,  and  he  certainly  kept  it  blazing  for  many  years, 
beginning  with  that  splendid  entertainment  Evangeline, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  29 

written  by  a  Boston  journalist  named  Cheever  Goodwin, 
first  produced  by  Mr.  Rice  in  1872  and  seen  at  Niblo's 
Garden  in  New  York,  two  years  later.  It  was  as  fine  a( 
piece  of  native  burlesque  as  the  town  had  seen  since 
John  Brougham's  Pocahontas  of  a  much  earlier  day,  and 
it  enjoyed  a  life  of  constant  travel  and  reproduction  for 
nearly  two  score  of  years.  It  gave  Henry  E.  Dixey  his 
first  step  on  the  road  to  fame  as  the  hind  legs  of  the 
heifer,  and  Harry  Hunter  temporary  renown  as  the 
"Lone  Fisherman."  Since  then  Rice  has  appeared  before 
the  public  as  the  producer  of  many  fine  entertainments 
of  like  nature,  the  most  successful  of  which  was  Adonis 
in  which  Mr.  Dixey  played  an  engagement,  then  almost 
unequalled  in  length  and  prosperity,  at  the  Bijou,  the 
run  extending  to  more  than  six  hundred  consecutive 
nights,  followed  by  one  hundred  nights  at  the  Gaiety 
Theatre  in  London,  where,  according  to  the  claim  of  its 
producer,  it  created  the  British  craze  for  musical  comedy 
which  still  endures.  Babes  in  the  Woods,  produced  at 
the  Union  Square  Theatre  in  1879,  was  another  of  Mr. 
Rice's  ventures  and  it  is  said  of  him  that  in  the  long 
course  of  his  managerial  career  he  has  given  opportunity 
to  more  young  women  of  talent  than  any  other  impre 
sario  of  his  time.  Mr.  Rice  is  still  active  and  has  not  a 
gray  hair  in  his  head,  though  the  same  cannot  be  said 
of  some  of  the  actors  who  have  played  under  his  man 
agement. 

As  I  grew  old  enough  to  be  allowed  to  go  about  by 
myself,  I  spent  many  afternoons  and  Saturdays  at  my 
father's  place  of  business,  roaming  about  the  docks 
among  the  hogsheads  of  sugar  and  molasses  and  clamber- 


30  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

ing  aboard  the  ships  to  make  acquaintance  with  captains 
and  sailors.  To  this  day  the  odor  of  spices  and  pepper 
awakens  memory  of  those  docks  and  warehouses.  At 
this  time  steam  had  not  stripped  all  the  romance  from 
the  sea,  nor  had  the  ocean  cables  robbed  the  shipping 
trade  of  its  element  of  venture.  The  harbor  was  white 
with  sails  and  the  great  clipper  ships — the  Dreadnaught, 
the  Prima  Donna,  the  Seminole  and  scores  of  others — 
were  constantly  coming  and  going  between  San  Fran 
cisco  and  New  York.  We  boys  used  to  make  collec 
tions  of  pictured  shipping  cards  that  announced  the  dates 
of  sailing.  The  captains  frequently  took  their  wives  with 
them  on  these  long  voyages  around  Cape  Horn — a  hun 
dred  days  was  a  short  passage — and  I  have  seen  many 
a  cabin  that  had  an  atmosphere  of  domesticity  not  unlike 
that  of  the  living-room  in  a  New  England  farmhouse. 
It  used  to  be  said  of  the  vessels  owned  by  A.  A.  Low 
and  Company  in  the  China  trade,  that  the  profits  from 
a  single  cargo  of  tea  often  paid  the  entire  cost  of  the  ship. 
The  Volunteer  Fire  Department  had  such  a  strong 
hold  on  the  people  of  the  city  that  it  must  have  been  a 
task  of  the  greatest  difficulty  to  replace  it  in  1866  by  the 
present  paid  service.  The  day  it  went  out  of  existence 
one  of  the  companies  ran  its  machine  into  the  Harlem 
River.  Citizens  of  every  class  belonged  to  the  fire  com 
panies  and  a  midnight  call  would  bring  them  hurrying 
from  their  beds  to  the  engine-house.  Each  company 
moreover,  had  its  special  following  of  adherents  that 
included  within  its  limits  numbers  of  boys,  and  these 
latter  had  many  fistic  fights  over  the  merits  of  the  ma 
chines  that  they  ran  with.  It  was  from  this  organiza- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  31 

tion  that  the  famous  Fire  Zouaves  were  recruited  dur 
ing  the  Civil  War  and  they  did  good  service  in  many 
a  hard  fought  battle.  So  strong  was  the  feeling  of 
brotherhood  engendered  by  the  work  of  fire  fighting, 
that  several  associations  composed  of  these  old  volun 
teers  held  together  for  years  and  were  often  seen  march 
ing  in  parades.  As  late  as  Washington's  Birthday  of 
1920,  these  veterans,  several  of  whom  had  gone  out 
under  General  Hawkins,  marched  to  Union  Square  and 
placed  their  annual  wreath  on  the  statute  of  Washington. 

Harry  Howard,  the  one-time  chief  of  the  Volunteer 
Fire  Department,  remained  a  popular  figure  in  the  life 
of  the  town  for  nearly  thirty  years  after  the  disband- 
ment  of  the  Volunteer  organization  and  was  frequently 
seen  in  east  side  theatres  in  company  with  the  still  un 
married  sweetheart  of  his  youth,  for  the  two  had  become 
friends  after  many  years  of  alienation.  I  was  writing 
for  the  New  York  Journal  at  the  time  of  Howard's 
death,  and  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  the  city 
editor,  who  owed  his  job  to  his  known  familiarity  with 
San  Francisco,  to  let  me  prepare  a  suitable  obituary.  He 
objected  because  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  him.  On  the 
day  of  Howard's  funeral,  which  chanced  to  be  a  rainy 
Sunday,  this  editor,  glancing  out  of  his  window,  ex 
claimed:  "Look  at  that  big  crowd  waiting  at  the  en 
trance  of  the  bridge !  What  does  it  mean?" 

To  which  I  answered  that  it  was  merely  the  citizens 
waiting  for  the  funeral  procession  of  the  man  that  no 
body  had  ever  heard  of. 


CHAPTER  III 

]\/TY  childhood  came  to  an  end  with  the  close  of  the 
•*•  •*•  war,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve  I  was  sent  to  a 
boarding-school  in  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts,  where  I 
remained  for  a  number  of  years.  There  I  learned  some 
thing  and  made  enduring  friendships.  My  room-mate 
was  Thomas  W.  Harvey,  now  the  leading  physician  of 
Orange,  New  Jersey,  and  among  my  young  friends  were 
"Billy"  Prall,  now  a  retired  clergyman;  Horace  G. 
Young,  who  afterward  became  the  manager  of  the 
Delaware  and  Hudson  Canal  Company;  Valentine 
Blacque,  the  son  of  the  Turkish  Minister  in  Washington ; 
Willard  and  Benny  Butler  of  the  well  known  New  York 
family;  George  E.  Munroe,  now  a  physician  in  New 
York;  and  Horace  McVicker,  the  son  of  the  theatrical 
manager  of  Chicago.  Horace  introduced  the  pleasing 
custom  of  dining  with  one  foot  on  the  table. 

I  had  been  reared  under  excellent  literary  influences, 
for  our  family  had  always  been  lovers  of  good  books, 
and  it  was  at  this  school  that  my  taste  was  so  far  de 
veloped  as  to  influence  my  choice  in  later  years  of  the 
profession  of  letters.  Moreover  it  was  here  that  I  gained 
my  first  worldly  experiences,  for  a  boarding-school  of 
half  a  hundred  boys  is  a  world  in  miniature  and  from 
my  contact  with  my  fellows  I  learned  many  valuable  les 
sons  and  suffered  much  mortification  when  my  selfish 
ness  or  conceit  earned  me  well-merited  rebukes. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  38 

I  was  one  of  the  very  small  boys  during  my  first  year 
and  looked  up  with  awe  to  such  giants  of  stature  and 
knowledge  as  Sam  Sinclair,  whose  father  was  the  pub 
lisher  of  the  New  York  Tribune;  Walter  Scranton, 
whose  family  gave  their  name  to  the  Pennsylvania  town; 
Richard  Gorham,  a  sweet  tenor  singer;  and  Parker 
Chandler  of  Boston.  Among  the  companions  of  my  own 
age  were  Harvey,  Malcolm  and  Harry  Douglas,  Lewis 
and  Joe  English  of  New  Haven,  John  and  Julian  Kean 
of  New  Jersey,  Duncan  Oliphant  and  his  brother, 
Charles,  and  Dick  Colgate  of  soap  renown.  Isaac  Bell, 
Edgar  Fawcett  and  Louis  C.  Tiffany  antedated  me  but 
still  lived  in  school  tradition.  My  friends  in  later  years 
included  Samuel  Adams  of  Canaan,  Connecticut ;  Harold 
Godwin  of  New  York,  Arthur  Dix  Temple,  Miguel  Mar 
tinez,  of  Spanish  birth;  Charley,  the  last  of  the  Del- 
monico  dynasty,  and  Lascelles  Maxwell  of  the  well- 
known  Brooklyn  family.  There  were  forty-four  boys 
in  the  school  and  five  baseball  nines,  an  athletic  teacher 
playing  on  the  first  nine,  and  this  and  other  out-door 
sports  must  have  done  us  much  good,  for  a  year  ago  I 
read  over  the  list  of  names  on  an  old  school  circular  and 
of  the  boys  mentioned  in  it,  one-third  I  knew  to  be  liv 
ing,  one-third  dead  and  the  others  I  had  lost  track  of. 

Tom  Harvey  had  a  friend  in  East  Canaan,  Connecti 
cut,  in  the  person  of  a  kind  and  sweet-faced  old  lady 
whom  we  called  "Auntie  Fox"  and  with  whom  we  spent 
more  than  one  holiday.  I  remember  these  visits  not 
only  because  we  were  allowed  to  make  pancakes  on  the 
kitchen  range  and  I  was  encouraged  to  recite  poetry,  an 
art  in  which  I  deemed  myself  proficient,  but  also  because 


34  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

of  a  glimpse  that  I  obtained  into  Yankee  greed,  a  quality 
that  has  not  disappeared  altogether  from  the  New  Eng 
land  States.  At  this  time  the  Connecticut  Western  Rail 
road  was  in  course  of  construction  and  giving  employ 
ment  to  thousands  of  Irish  workmen.  There  was  prob 
ably  no  code  of  liquor  laws  in  the  state  at  this  time  or,  if 
there  were,  they  were  not  strictly  enforced  for  scores  of 
farmers  opened  bar-rooms,  usually  among  the  horse-hair 
furniture  of  their  "best  room,"  and  proceeded  to  profit 
by  the  invasion  of  the  thirsty  multitude.  I  remember  that 
one  of  these  temporary  saloons  was  opened  by  the  cus 
todian  of  the  local  hearse  in  the  loft  directly  above  the 
quarters  occupied  by  that  vehicle  of  woe. 


Edwards  Place  School,  as  it  was  called — the  main 
building  had  been  the  home  of  Jonathan  Edwards — • 
was  conducted  by  Ferdinand  Hoffmann,  a  highly  edu 
cated  German;  and  Jared  Reid,  the  father  of  the  artist, 
Robert,  of  to-day.  It  was  the  first-named  who  told  us 
that  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  the  greatest  literary  man 
that  America  had  produced,  and  thus  implanted  in  my 
mind  an  opinion  that  I  have  never  had  reason  to  change. 
I  cannot  say  that  any  of  my  school-mates  won  deathless 
fame  in  later  life,  but  several  of  them  lived  to  become 
prosperous  and  highly  respected  citizens.  Hindman 
Barney,  the  tallest  boy  in  the  school,  seemed  to  us  smaller 
fry  a  marvel  of  size  and  worldly  sophistication  as  he  had 
been  twice  to  Europe  and  had  even  crossed  in  the  Great 
Eastern,  an  exploit  which  we  deemed  much  to  his  credit. 
It  was  currently  reported  that  he  shaved,  and  a  brilliant 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  35 

future  was  predicted  for  him.  After  leaving  school  he 
became  an  actor,  lost  an  arm  in  a  drunken  quarrel,  and, 
when  I  last  heard  of  him,  he  was  traveling  with  a  tem 
perance  lecturer  as  the  "Awful  Example." 

What  dreams  we  had  in  those  far-off  days,  my  school 
mates  and  I !  And  how  many  of  those  dreams,  I  wonder, 
have  ever  been  realized!  I  am  quite  sure  that  each  of 
us  saw  himself  in  his  own  dream  at  the  very  top  of  his 
chosen  vocation.  I  know  I  did.  By  this  time  I  had 
fallen  under  the  spell  of  Thackeray  and  a  resolve  to 
become  a  man  of  letters  was  slowly  taking  shape  in  my 
brain.  Then  there  came  a  moment  when  I  informed  my 
room-mate  that  I  would  read  Thackeray  no  more  lest 
future  critics  should  say  that  my  manner  of  writing 
resembled  his.  No  one  has  yet  brought  this  charge 
against  me.  I  wish  somebody  would.  Wealth,  fame, 
the  esteem  and  envy  of  our  fellow-men,  and  possibly  in 
the  case  of  the  bigger  boys,  the  love  of  fair  women, 
figured  in  all  our  dreams,  but  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  dreamt 
of  those  priceless  assets  of  later  life,  a  good  digestion  and 
a  sound  set  of  teeth. 

Stockbridge  was  then  a  village  of  great  beauty  and 
dignity,  though  it  could  not  boast  of  the  costly  mansions 
that  now  adorn  it.  It  had  a  literary  history  that  was 
quite  unusual.  The  Sedgwicks  had  lived  there  for  many 
years  as  had  G.  P.  R.  James  and  Jonathan  Edwards. 
In  the  neighborhood  of  the  village,  going  as  far  as 
Lenox,  Longfellow,  Herman  Melville,  and,  I  believe, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  had  formerly  dwelt,  and 
memories  of  the  Hawthornes  and  Fanny  Kemble  were 
still  fresh  in  my  boyhood's  days.  The  daughter  of  Har- 


36  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

riet  Beecher  Stowe  was  the  wife  of  the  Episcopal  rector 
in  our  village  and  her  son  Charles,  now  an  Episcopal 
clergyman,  was  at  our  school.  The  rector's  wife,  Mrs. 
Henry  M.  Allen,  was  a  vivacious  young  woman  who 
fascinated  me  with  her  witty  conversation  and  kindly 
sympathy  with  boyish  nature.  I  was  allowed  to  visit  her 
frequently  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  bored  her  a  great 
many  times.  It  was  at  her  house  that  I  met  Mrs.  Stowe, 
whose  face  and  manner  I  can  still  vividly  recall. 

The  fame  of  the  Field  family  is  identified  with  that 
of  Stockbridge.  Cyrus  and  David  were  frequent  visitors 
there  and  Jonathan  and  the  Rev.  Henry  M.  Field  still 
maintained  homes  in  the  village.  Mrs.  Henry  M.  Field, 
whom  I  knew  slightly,  as  a  boy  might  be  permitted  to 
know  a  woman  so  much  his  superior  in  years  and  dis 
tinction,  had  played  a  part  in  one  of  the  most  notable 
tragedies  of  her  age.  Swiss  by  birth  she  had  become  the 
governess  in  the  family  of  the  Due  de  Choiseul-Praslin, 
who  subsequently  murdered  his  wife,  was  convicted  of 
the  crime,  and  was  believed  to  have  committed  suicide 
in  his  cell  The  rumor  that  he  had  been  allowed  to 
escape  execution  because  of  his  high  position  spread 
among  the  Parisians  and  helped  to  precipitate  the  revolu 
tion  of  1848.  The  governess  was  tried  for  complicity  in 
the  crime  and  Mrs.  Field  afterward  told  her  friends  in 
this  country  that  when  she  was  being  conveyed  to  the 
courtroom  the  gendarmes  were  obliged  to  form  a  ring 
around  her  carriage  and  fight  their  way  through  the 
maddened  crowd. 

In  New  York  she  occupied  a  high  social  position  and 
showed  herself  an  adept  in  the  art  of  retaliatory  speech. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  37 

It  is  related  that  having  embroiled  herself  with  Mrs. 
Cyrus  Field  she  found  herself  one  evening  unexpectedly 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Cyrus  and  to  the  latter's  affable 
question,  "and  why  is  not  dear  Henry  here  to-night?'* 
she  made  prompt  reply  in  a  voice  that  carried  to  the 
farthest  extremity  of  the  room:  "Dear  Henry  is  not 
here  because  he  is  at  home  writing  speeches  for  Cyrus 
to  deliver  in  Europe."  I  am  glad  to  add  that  Mrs.  Field 
gave  noteworthy  assistance  to  Peter  Cooper  in  the  early 
days  of  Cooper  Union. 

In  recent  years  I  have  more  than  once  revisited  this 
beautiful  region,  around  which  cluster  so  many  happy 
memories,  and  have  been  saddened  by  the  changes 
wrought  by  the  "march  of  improvement"  that  has  been 
going  on  since  those  boyhood  days.  Modern  wealth  had 
marked  the  countryside  for  its  own  and  the  literary 
atmosphere  of  olden  times  was  now  but  a  fading  memory. 
The  lake  in  whose  waters  we  used  to  fish  and  on  whose 
shore  the  Hawthorne  cottage  once  stood  seemed  to  me  to 
stagger  under  the  deadening  weight  of  ornate  mansions 
that  fittingly  symbolized  the  newly  acquired  fortunes 
from  which  they  sprang.  One  consoling  thought  re 
mained  to  me  as  I  viewed  these  evidences  of  the  material 
prosperity  that  had  arisen  arrogantly  from  the  ashes  of 
far  better  things.  In  the  decades  yet  to  come,  I  said  to 
myself,  when  those  fortunes  shall  have  crumbled  away, 
as  have  those  of  my  boyhood;  when  those  great  estates 
shall  have  been  divided  and  the  huge  mansions  turned 
into  hotels  or  asylums,  and  then  the  proceeds  shall  have 
passed  through  the  hands  of  the  lawyers  and  the  re 
mainder  distributed  among  the  heirs  and  by  them 


38  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

squandered  in  riotous  living,  even  then  that  which  went 
forth  from  that  little  red  cottage  on  the  lake's  shore  will 
enter  into  the  souls  of  men. 

A  change  in  the  family  fortunes  led  to  my  removal 
from  school  and  shortly  afterward  we  left  Brooklyn  for 
good.  Although  not  given  to  superstition  I  feel  bound  to 
relate  the  following.  My  father  had  prospered  in  busi 
ness  and,  as  it  had  always  been  his  purpose  to  live  in 
New  York  where  he  had  many  friends,  he  made  a 
careful  survey  of  the  real  estate  field  and  finally  pur 
chased  the  home  at  21  West  Nineteenth  Street.  It  had 
been  built  by  General  Fremont,  regarded  in  his  day  as  an 
unlucky  politician,  and  was  a  wide,  well-built  and  alto 
gether  comfortable  residence  with  a  vacant  lot  on  either 
side.  It  was,  however,  known  to  real  estate  men  as  an 
unlucky  house  that  had  carried  ill  fortune  with  it  ever 
since  a  woman  hanged  herself  from  one  of  the  upper 
banisters  overlooking  its  wide  hall.  Before  we  could 
move  into  it,  my  father  had,  through  no  fault  of  his 
own,  lost  his  lease  of  the  Pierrepont  Stores  and  we  re 
moved  temporarily  to  the  little  village  of  Windham, 
Connecticut.  He  rented  the  house  to  a  Mrs.  Sanger 
who  let  out  the  rooms  in  lodgings  but  was  constantly 
losing  her  tenants  and  servants  because  of  the  strange 
happenings  on  the  premises.  She  told  me  once  of  her 
hair-raising  experience  with  a  mysterious  shape  that 
passed  her  one  evening  in  the  hall  and  _,o  frightened 
a  little  dog  in  her  arms  that  the  animal  had  a  convulsive 
fit.  Eventually  my  father  sold  the  house  to  Dr.  May  and 
the  later  misfortunes  of  that  family  are  a  matter  of 
local  history.  It  was  here  that  Mr.  James  Gordon  Ben- 


mm. 


CENTURY-OLD  INN  ON  WINDHAM  GREEN.     THE  AUTHOR  AND  J.  ALDEN 
WEIR  STANDING  IN  THE  FOREGROUND 


WINDHAM  BANK  ON  THE  UPPER  SIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE  GREEN 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  39 

nett,  then  engaged  to  Miss  May,  laid  the  foundation  for 
his  assault  by  Fred  May  in  front  of  the  Union  Club. 
And  it  was  in  this  house  that  a  heart-broken  woman 
killed  herself  and  her  children  some  years  subsequently. 
There  was  never  any  luck  in  that  house  and  it  was 
eventually  torn  down  and  replaced  by  a  loft  building. 

Windham  was  a  typical  old-fashioned  New  England 
village,  settled  nearly  two  hundred  years  before  our 
arrival  and  boasting  a  cemetery  in  which  reposed  one  of 
its  earliest  settlers,  an  Englishman  who  was  supposed  to 
have  been  one  of  the  Regicides  and  who  bequeathed  to 
a  local  church  a  beautiful  service  of  silver,  which  was 
melted  in  later  years  and  refashioned  in  more  modern 
style. 

Built  in  accordance  with  ancient  custom  around  a 
central  tree-shaded  green,  the  village  had  been  a  place  of 
some  importance  in  the  days  of  the  stage-coach,  having 
several  stores  and  many  ancient  traditions.  It  is  known 
to  this  day  as  "Frogtown"  because  on  a  certain  night 
during  the  Revolution,  the  noisy  croaking  of  a  number 
of  frogs  migrating  from  one  pond  to  another  frightened 
the  community  into  a  belief  that  the  British  army  was 
approaching  with  hostile  intent. 

My  cousin  Sim  and  I  entered  into  all  the  rustic  sports 
with  the  zest  of  youth,  skating  and  coasting  in  the  win 
ter,  nutting  in  the  autumn,  swimming  and  ball-playing 
in  the  summer  and  in  late  spring  hanging  May-baskets 
on  the  doors  of  the  girls  whom  we  most  affected.  Our 
affairs  of  the  heart  sometimes  led  to  animosity  and  I 
still  retain  a  corroding  memory  of  that  bitter  night  when 
Sim  walked  off  with  the  girl  whom  I  regarded  as  my 


40  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

exclusive  property.  I  watched  them  sulkily  as  they  passed 
and  heard  her  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  at  some  re 
mark  of  her  companion's.  "She  thinks  that  fellow  is 
funny,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Just  let  her  wait  till  to 
morrow  night  and  I'll  show  her  what  it  is  to  be  really 
funny!"  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  at  that  moment 
I  was  funnier  than  he  was. 

There  were  two  characters  in  the  village  of  whom  I 
learned  certain  things  much  later  in  life  that  would  have 
greatly  surprised  me  could  I  have  known  them  in  the 
days  when  Sim  and  I  used  to  play  croquet  on  the  village 
green.  One  of  these  characters  was  the  manager  of  the 
local  bank,  a  picturesque  building  of  gray  stone  whose 
very  aspect  suggested  conservatism  and  financial  in 
tegrity.  Well  known  for  his  personal  dignity  and 
probity,  this  man  was  perhaps  the  most  eminent  in 
habitant  of  the  place.  The  other  character  was  the 
village  half-wit  named  John  Collins,  who  did  odd  jobs 
around  the  hotel  and  was  always  glad  to  entertain 
strangers  by  playing  on  a  mouth  organ  with  an  accom 
paniment  of  knuckles  rapped  harmoniously  on  the  bar. 
From  this  picturesque  old  bank  graduated  more  than  one 
young  clerk  who,  in  after  years,  came  to  grief  as  a  de 
faulter,  and  of  this  fact  I  was  reminded  long  years  after 
ward  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  Ludlow  Street  Jail  in 
company  with  George  Parsons  Lathrop,  with  whom  I 
was  preparing  a  descriptive  article. 

Among  the  prisoners  whom  we  interviewed  was  a  dis 
tinctly  presentable  man  of  about  thirty,  who  accosted 
Lathrop  and  recalled  a  previous  meeting  at  the  house  of 
the  latter's  brother-in-law,  Julian  Hawthorne.  Our  ac- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  41 

quaintance  related  this  story  as  he  had  had  it  from  the 
lips  of  Ferdinand  Ward,  who  had  recently  been  an  in 
mate  of  the  jail. 

"I  was  sitting  at  my  desk  one  morning,"  said  Ward 
to  our  informant,  "wondering  how  much  longer  I 
should  be  able  to  hold  out  when  a  stranger  entered,  in 
troduced  himself  as  the  manager  of  a  New  England 
bank  and  remarked  that  he  had  a  little  money  to  invest 
should  a  favorable  opportunity  offer.  Certain  friends 
of  his,  he  added,  had  done  very  well  through  my  office 
and  he  asked  if  he  might  have  a  share  in  one  of  my 
blind  pools. 

"At  this  time  I  was  in  a  very  tight  hole;  the  Marine 
Bank  of  my  associate,  Mr.  Fish,  was  on  the  edge  of  sus 
pension  and  I  was  at  my  wit's  end  trying  to  devise 
schemes  for  keeping  afloat  a  little  longer  in  the  hope  that 
the  luck  would  turn.  But  of  course  no  one,  least  of  all 
this  man  in  front  of  me,  dreamt  that  I  was  in  such  a  bad 
fix.  About  all  I  had  left  to  go  on  was  my  nerve  and 
that's  a  big  asset  in  the  sort  of  business  I  was  engaged 
in.  I  saw  that  he  was  a  rather  timid  and  cautious  chap 
so  I  stood  him  off,  saying  that  I  was  only  interested  in 
one  deal  at  the  moment  and  when  I'd  pulled  that  off  I 
intended  to  retire  from  business  altogether.  He  asked 
me  if  he  could  get  in  on  that  deal  but  I  told  him  I  had 
about  all  the  money  I  needed  and  so  we  talked  until  at 
last  he  got  anxious  and  literally  forced  his  money — about 
$30,000 — on  me,  for  which  I  gave  him  a  receipt,  but  did 
not  tell  him  what  I  intended  to  do  with  it ;  nor  for  that 
matter  did  he  ask. 

"He  turned  up  again  a  few  weeks  later  and  although 


42  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

I  recognized  his  face  I  could  not  remember  what  trans 
action  I  had  had  with  him.  I  seemed  to  remember  that 
money  had  passed  between  us,  in  which  event  it  must 
have  been  from  his  pocket  to  mine,  for  that  was  the 
only  way  money  was  moving  in  my  office  at  that  time.  I 
greeted  him  pleasantly  and  talked  with  him  for  several 
minutes,  trying  to  size  him  up  and  also  to  remember 
who  he  was. 

"At  last  I  said,  'I  think  we've  got  a  little  business 
matter  to  adjust,  haven't  we?'  and  straightway  he  pro 
duced  the  receipt  I'd  given  him.  That  gave  me  his  name 
and  the  amount  of  his  investment,  so  I  took  down  a  huge 
ledger  and  began  to  make  notes  on  a  pad,  all  the  time 
asking  myself  if  it  would  pay  to  try  and  pull  him  in 
deeper.  Something  in  the  look  of  his  face  told  me  it 
would  and  I  called  to  my  cashier  to  make  out  a  cheque 
for — I've  forgotten  the  exact  sum  but  it  was  not  far 
from  double  what  he'd  put  up,  and  it  was  figured  down 
to  the  odd  cents  so  as  to  make  it  look  honest  and  exact. 
Then  I  got  busy  with  some  letters  just  as  if  I  was  glad 
to  get  such  a  small  matter  off  my  mind  and  as  I  wrote 
I  could  hear  him  breathing  hard. 

'  'Suppose  I  were  to  leave  this  money  with  you/  he 
began,  but  I  stopped  him  short.  'You're  one  of  the 
lucky  ones,'  I  said.  Take  my  advice  and  be  content 
with  what  you've  made.  Besides  I  don't  care  to  handle 
any  more  small  funds/ 

"So  he  took  himself  off,  but  I  knew  I'd  see  him  again 
soon  and  sure  enough  he  turned  up  again  in  less  than 
a  week,  this  time  in  company  with  some  other  Connecti 
cut  bankers,  all  eager  to  invest.  And  the  cheque  that  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  43 

original  sucker  turned  in  to  me  was  the  one  I'd  given 
him.  It  was  drawn  on  the  Marine  Bank  and  he'd  had 
it  certified  not  knowing  that  the  certification  wasn't 
worth  the  red  ink  it  was  printed  with." 

And  then  I  learned  to  my  amazement  that  the  holder 
of  that  certified  cheque  was  none  other  than  the  man  I 
had  known  in  boyhood  as  the  manager  of  the  Windham 
Bank. 

Shortly  after  hearing  this  recital,  I  learned  that  my 
old  friend  John  Collins  had  also  distinguished  himself  in 
a  manner  characteristic  of  himself  in  the  field  of  finance. 
He  was  giving  lectures  on  various  abstruse  financial  sub 
jects,  which  he  doubtless  understood  as  well  as  certain 
academic  philosophers,  at  various  crossroad  forums  in 
the  vicinity  of  Windham.  During  the  long  summer  even 
ings  his  voice  was  often  raised  in  behalf  of  cheap  money 
or  some  novel  scheme  of  taxation.  Nor  did  the  fact 
that  his  winters  were  spent  in  the  County  Poor  House 
lessen  his  vogue  as  a  local  authority  on  finance. 


CHAPTER  IV 

boyhood  was  passed  during  what  a  local  chron- 
icier  has  aptly  termed  the  "Flash  Age  of  New 
York,"  a  period  of  crime,  reckless  extravagance,  politi 
cal  corruption  and  false  prosperity  engendered  by  the 
Civil  War,  the  inflation  of  the  currency  and  the  rapid 
rise  of  contractors  and  others  from  poverty  to  wealth. 
Its  annals  are  punctuated  with  murders,  bank  robberies, 
spectacular  Wall  Street  gambling  and  the  doings  of  many 
bizarre  characters.  It  was  during  this  time  that  the 
illegal  registration,  naturalization  and  colonization  of 
voters,  carried  on  during  and  subsequent  to  1867,  enabled 
William  M.  Tweed  and  his  gang  to  organize  and  accom 
plish  the  most  extraordinary  scheme  of  municipal  robbery 
that  the  world  has  record  of.  Their  doings  were  well 
known  to  the  sophisticated  but  no  public  notice  was 
taken  of  them  until  Jimmy  O'Brien,  a  disappointed  poli 
tician,  obtained  all  the  figures  relating  to  the  building 
and  furnishing  of  the  new  Court  House  and  brought 
them,  together  with  other  evidences  of  wholesale  rob 
bery,  to  the  office  of  the  New  York  Times,  where  their 
publication  created  a  profound  sensation  and  awakened 
the  leading  men  of  the  city  to  action.  Tweed's  non 
chalant  reply,  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 
when  charged  with  malfeasance  in  office  is  a  historic 
saying  and  plainly  indicates  his  attitude  toward  the  peo 
ple.  And  yet  I  have  learned  on  good  authority  that  Mr. 

44 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  45 

Jones,  the  owner  of  the  Times,  was  offered  a  million  dol 
lars  to  suppress  the  revelation  and  that  Thomas  Nast 
refused  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  which  he  could  have 
had  by  ceasing  to  cartoon  Tweed  and  the  gang  in 
Harper's  Weekly.  "My  constituents  can't  read  but  they 
can  all  look  at  pictures,"  said  the  Boss  of  New  York. 

A  spectacular  personage  at  this  period  and  one  who 
could  almost  be  said  to  represent  the  spirit  of  the  "Flash 
Age,"  was  James  Fisk,  Jr.,  who  had  begun  life  as  a  silk 
pedler  in  New  England,  driving  a  four-horse  equipage 
from  village  to  village  and  selling  his  wares  with  a 
glib,  persuasive  tongue  that  eventually  brought  him  an 
offer  from  the  firm  of  Jordan,  Marsh  and  Company  of 
Boston,  whence  he  shortly  migrated  to  New  York  and 
became  the  partner  of  Jay  Gould.  Fisk  delighted  in 
showing  himself  to  the  public.  It  was  his  habit  to  put 
on  naval  uniform  and  go  down  to  the  pier  to  start  the 
Fall  River  boats  and  the  Grand  Republic,  which  ran  to 
Long  Branch,  on  their  several  ways.  On  fine  afternoons 
he  could  be  seen  on  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  four-in-hand 
brake  filled  with  gaudily  bedizened  and  painted  women. 
On  these  occasions  he  received  the  respectful  and  admir 
ing  salutations  of  citizens  of  a  kind  that  would  laugh  at 
him  to-day.  His  chief  rival  in  this  sort  of  exhibition 
was  a  quack  doctor  named  Helmbold,  whose  cumbrous 
vehicle  was  drawn  by  five  horses. 

Fisk's  quarrel  with  Edward  S.  Stokes  grew  out  of 
the  latter's  attentions  to  Josie  Mansfield,  whom  the 
former  had  established  in  a  house  on  West  Twenty- 
third  Street,  conveniently  near  the  Grand  Opera  House, 
where  the  Erie  Railway  had  its  offices.  Miss  Mansfield 


46  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

unquestionably  favored  Stokes,  a  fact  that  her  protector 
was  not  slow  to  discover.  She  tried  to  pump  him  once 
regarding  the  probabilities  of  the  stock  market  and  he, 
suspecting  her  game,  imparted  to  her,  under  a  solemn 
promise  of  secrecy,  a  tip  that  cost  Stokes  many  thousand 
dollars  and  materially  increased  the  bitterness  between 
the  pair.  But  it  was  not  on  account  of  Josie  Mansfield 
that  Stokes  killed  his  rival  in  the  Grand  Central  Hotel. 
He  had  the  best  of  his  rival  in  that  affair  and  there  was 
no  reason  for  such  a  killing.  It  was  Fisk's  illegal  seizure 
of  the  other's  oil  refineries  at  Hunter's  Point  that  aroused 
him  to  this  act  of  vengeance. 

Fisk  certainly  caught  the  popular  fancy  of  his  day  to 
an  extent  that  seems  remarkable  to  us  now.  His  pic 
tures  were  seen  everywhere  and  he  was  known  to  be  a 
free  liver,  a  liberal  spender  of  money  and  a  diligent 
patron  of  the  stage  in  its  baser  form.  His  virtues  were 
fitly  commemorated  in  a  song  with  this  refrain: 

He  may  have  done  wrong  but  he  thought  he  done  right, 
And  he  always  was  good  to  the  poor. 

For  years  after  his  death  the  brass  bands  of  circus 
companies  exhibiting  in  the  Vermont  village  where  he 
was  buried  visited  the  local  cemetery  and  played  a  dirge 
over  his  grave. 

Stokes  was  tried  three  times  and  finally  sentenced  to 
Sing  Sing  for  a  short  term  of  years  and  while  there  en 
joyed  such  privileges  as  are  impossible  to-day.  Josie 
Mansfield  left  New  York  immediately  after  the  murder 
and  established  herself  in  Paris  where  she  remained  until 
her  death  a  few  years  ago. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  47 

• 
Another  murder  that  attracted  much  attention  at  this 

time  and  still  ranks  as  one  of  the  unsolved  of  the  city's 
many  mysteries,  was  that  of  an  elderly  and  highly  re 
spected  Hebrew  named  Nathan  in  his  home  on  West 
Twenty-third  Street  directly  opposite  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel.  His  son  Washington  was  accused  of  the  crime, 
but  among  Hebrews  of  the  high  class  to  which  the 
Nathans  belonged,  the  respect  for  the  parent  amounts  to 
veneration  and  it  is  impossible  to  believe  him  guilty.  Years 
afterward,  Abe  Hummel  told  me  that  a  man  whose  name 
was,  I  think,  Forrester,  was  arrested  on  suspicion  and 
sent  at  once  for  that  astute  criminal  lawyer.  To  him  he 
confessed  that  he  had  escaped  from  San  Quentin  prison 
in  California,  and  begged  to  be  sent  back  there  without 
delay. 

"I  have  often  been  retained,"  said  Mr.  Hummel,  "to 
keep  a  man  out  of  prison  but  now  for  the  first  time  in  my 
career  I  was  employed  to  send  one  back,  and  I  have 
never  seen  a  happier  man  than  was  this  one  when  he 
started  for  the  Pacific  Coast  in  company  with  the  officers 
of  the  law/' 

Many  other  crimes  occurred  during  the  "Flash  Age" 
and  the  later  Seventies,  for  the  boast  was  openly  made 
that  "hanging  is  played  out  in  New  York."  The  Rogers 
murder,  the  killing  of  Matt  Dancer,  a  well  known  gam 
bler,  are  still,  I  believe,  unsolved  mysteries.  Such  opera 
tions  as  bank  burglary  were  held  in  much  higher  esteem 
during  the  Sixties  and  Seventies  than  at  present,  and  the 
most  distinguished  members  of  the  craft  were  known 
by  sight  and  pointed  out  to  interested  strangers.  Elec 
trical  devices  had  not  then  robbed  the  profession  of  its 


48  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

romance,  as  steam  and  the  cable  have  since  robbed  ship 
ping,  and  the  skill  and  daring  of  the  marauders  appealed 
strongly  to  the  minds  of  the  venturesome. 

There  is  still  standing,  I  believe,  a  little  two-story 
house  at  the  corner  of  Clinton  and  Rivington  Streets, 
which  was  for  many  years  the  headquarters  of  some  of 
the  greatest  criminals  in  the  country  and  in  which  many 
of  the  most  daring  robberies  of  the  period  were  planned. 
The  front  part  of  the  ground  floor  was  devoted  to  the 
sale  of  cheap  dry-goods  but  the  parlor  in  the  rear  con 
tained  many  articles  of  furniture  and  silver  of  a  sort 
seldom  seen  in  that  quarter  of  the  town.  It  was  in  this 
room  that  "Mother  Mandelbaum,"  as  she  was  affection 
ately  termed  by  more  than  one  generation  of  crooks,  trans 
acted  business.  A.  C.  Wheeler,  better  known  as  "Nym 
Crinkle/'  once  told  me  of  a  visit  that  he  paid  to  Mrs. 
Mandelbaum  in  her  parlor  and  how  adroitly  she  eluded 
all  his  efforts  to  question  her.  He  told  me  also  how 
she  produced  from  some  musty  corner  of  her  cellar, 
cobwebbed  bottles  of  rare  wines  and  how,  as  the  talk 
grew  more  and  more  interesting,  the  accent  of  the  un 
lettered  German  Jewess  gradually  disappeared  from  her 
tongue  and  he  left  her  in  the  belief  that  she  was  a  most 
remarkable  woman  and  one  better  educated  than  was 
generally  supposed. 

Mrs.  Mandelbaum  was  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  her 
place  of  business  a  market  in  which  jewelry,  rolls  of  silk, 
silverware  and  other  spoils  could  be  disposed  of  for 
about  half  their  real  value,  the  old  lady  assuming  all  the 
risks  of  the  transaction.  Short,  squat  and  ugly,  she 
looked  as  if  she  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  pages  of  a 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  49 

Viennese  comic  paper,  yet  she  was  a  sort  of  female 
Moriarty  who  could  plan  a  robbery,  furnish  the  neces 
sary  funds  for  carrying  it  out  and  even  choose  the  man 
best  fitted  to  accomplish  it. 

And  among  all  the  men  who  frequented  her  little 
parlor,  there  was  but  one  for  whom  she  ever  showed  any 
affection.  This  was  George  Leonidas  Leslie,  generally 
known  as  "Howard,"  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  western 
brewer,  a  graduate  of  one  of  the  smaller  universities  and 
the  possessor  of  a  fine  mind  and  an  agreeable  personality. 
In  the  course  of  about  a  dozen  years  he  is  said  to  have 
participated  in  robberies  amounting  to  millions  of  dol 
lars.  He  lived  on  Fulton  Street,  Brooklyn,  in  the  same 
house  with  a  highly  respected  theatrical  family  with 
whom  he  and  his  wife  were  on  intimate  terms. 

Every  day  Howard  would  cross  the  ferry  to  New  York 
and  while  there  divide  his  time  between  Mrs.  Mandel- 
baum's  back  parlor,  a  certain  Grand  Street  saloon  fre 
quented  by  crooks,  and  the  old  bookstores  of  Nassau 
Street,  where  he  was  known  as  a  discriminating  pur 
chaser.  An  expert  mechanic,  he  never  saw  a  complicated 
lock  without  wanting  to  pick  it  and  more  than  once  he 
obtained  employment  in  a  safe  factory  in  order  to  add 
to  his  knowledge. 

One  morning,  early  in  June,  1878,  his  body  was  found 
lying  in  a  bit  of  Westchester  woods,  the  dead  hand 
clutching  a  pistol,  though  it  was  soon  discovered  that 
the  fatal  shot  had  been  fired  by  another  weapon.  Thou 
sands  viewed  the  body  without  recognizing  it  and  it  was 
not  until  Mrs.  Mandelbaum  sent  one  of  her  henchmen 
up  to  see  it,  that  the  authorities  learned  that  it  was 


50  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

George  Howard,  presumably  murdered  by  one  of  his 
pals;  and  of  all  his  stealings  there  remained  nothing  but 
the  five-dollar  bill  he  had  given  his  wife  the  last  time 
he  left  her,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Mandelbaum  who  paid  the 
cost  of  the  funeral.  And  after  it  was  all  over,  and  she 
had  brought  the  widow  back  to  her  home,  this  hard- 
faced,  crime-laden  old  woman  sat  rocking  herself  to 
and  fro  and  muttering  over  and  over  again:  "Poor 
Shorge,  he  vas  such  a  nais  man !" 

Two  of  Mrs.  Mandelbaum's  intimates,  Billy  Porter, 
suspected  of  Howard's  murder,  and  Michael  Kurtz, 
known  as  "Sheeney  Mike,"  figured  in  a  story  of  a  later 
period  which  has  to  do  with  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
of  European  robberies. 

Early  in  the  Eighties  a  young  American  actor  went 
to  London  with  a  play  entitled,  "Fun  in  a  Photograph 
Gallery,"  and  there  repeated  the  success  he  had  made  in 
New  York.  While  there  he  was  introduced  to  two 
gentlemen  of  pleasing  manners  who  soon  became  regular 
frequenters  of  the  very  comfortable,  well  furnished 
rooms  in  which  he  had  established  himself.  The  time 
came  when,  without  a  word  of  good-bye,  these  ever- 
welcome  visitors  effaced  themselves  from  the  scene  and 
for  two  or  three  weeks  were  seen  there  no  more.  Then 
came  the  news  of  the  great  Vienna  postal  robbery  which 
still  lives  in  criminal  annals,  and  a  day  or  two  later  the 
two  gentlemen  walked  into  the  player's  apartment  where 
he  was  entertaining  another  actor  and  one  Dolly  Adams, 
a  water  queen,  who  spent  much  of  her  time  in  a  glass 
tank  eating  bananas  and  smoking  cigars  under  water. 
"Sheeney  Mike"  took  off  his  silk  hat,  removed  a  false 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  51 

lining  and,  stirring  up  a  heap  of  jewels  that  it  contained 
said  to  her,  "Veil,  Dolly,  how  vould  you  like  some  of 
these?"  The  criminal's  known  weakness  for  the  feminine 
sex  had  led  him  to  this  virtual  confession  of  a  crime  of 
unusual  magnitude  that  had  been  "pulled  off"  success 
fully  by  men  as  yet  unsuspected. 

Another  of  Mrs.  Mandelbaum's  gang  was  Mark  Shin- 
burn,  who,  having  amassed  a  fortune  through  years  of 
bank  burglary,  returned  to  his  native  Germany,  bought 
an  ancient  castle  on  the  Rhine,  obtained  in  some  way 
the  title  of  baron  and  set  himself  up  as  a  man  of  means 
and  leisure.  But  gambling  and  lavish  expenditure 
brought  his  treasury  to  such  a  low  ebb  that  he  visited  a 
town  in  Belgium  in  which  he  knew  that  there  was  a 
bank  rich  in  deposits  of  gold  and  notes,  and  insecurely 
guarded.  In  company  with  a  man  named  "Piano- 
Charlie  Bullard,"  he  attempted  to  rob  this  bank  but  was 
caught,  tried  and  sentenced  to  a  term  of  imprisonment 
that  brought  his  career  in  his  Rhenish  castle  to  a  close, 
and  the  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  living  in  great  poverty 
in  the  vicinity  of  Boston.  Crooks  are  notoriously  close- 
mouthed  in  regard  to  their  own  operations  or  those  of 
their  pals,  and  although  this  man  might  obtain  a  large 
sum  for  his  reminiscences,  nothing  will  induce  him  to 
put  his  pen  to  paper. 

The  criminal  annals  of  these  times  are  rich  in  anecdotal 
lore  showing  the  cunning  and  courage  that  marked  so 
many  deeds  of  darkness,  among  which  was  the  novel 
enterprise  of  the  so-called  "Patchen  Avenue  gang"  com 
posed  of  high  grade  crooks,  every  one  of  whom  was 
known  by  sight  and  record  to  the  New  York  police  and 


52  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

some  of  them  to  the  sophisticated  public  as  well.  The 
operations  of  these  men  were  hampered  by  the  constant 
surveillance  of  the  police  to  whom  their  various  haunts, 
homes  and  "hang-outs"  were  well  known,  nor  did  fre 
quent  changes  of  address  lessen  the  "shadowing/5  Here 
tofore  their  migrations  had  always  been  from  one  shady 
spot  to  another,  and  when  they  sought  to  escape  atten 
tion  by  establishing  new  headquarters  in  the  suburbs 
they  were  wont  to  select  a  house  whose  very  remoteness 
was  suggestive  of  mystery. 

In  order  to  escape  this  continued  espionage  they  de 
termined  to  defy  all  criminal  tradition  by  establishing  a 
rendezvous  in  some  locality  to  which  no  sinister  suspicion 
could  attach,  and  the  house  that  they  selected  was  one 
with  an  ample  garden  in  Patchen  Avenue,  a  quiet  resi 
dential  street  in  Brooklyn.  For  a  time  the  scheme  worked 
well.  The  wife  of  one  of  the  gang  was  a  very  present 
able  woman  and  to  her  were  assigned  the  duties  of  mis 
tress  of  the  house.  It  was  agreed  from  the  first  that  an 
atmosphere  of  quiet  respectability  should  be  carefully 
maintained.  Neighbors  called  and  were  graciously  re 
ceived  by  an  amiable  hostess.  Neither  peeking  through 
shutters  nor  the  furtive  scurrying  of  wary  feet  was 
allowed  on  these  occasions  and  in  due  time  the  calls  were 
returned  in  a  manner  that  confirmed  the  belief  that  the 
new-comers  were  desirable  acquaintances.  They  had  many 
visitors  of  their  own  kind  who  invariably  came  and  went 
in  broad  daylight,  for  by  common  consent  all  mysterious, 
midnight  flitting  to  and  fro  was  strictly  forbidden. 

And  under  cover  of  this  mask  of  decorum  all  sorts 
of  nefarious,  predatory  schemes  were  hatched  and  later 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  53 

carried  to  successful  fulfilment.  A  sense  of  complete 
security,  to  which  they  were  utterly  unaccustomed,  grew 
upon  the  little  household  and  as  spring  advanced  they 
set  out  a  croquet  set  on  the  lawn  and  played  openly 
within  sight  of  their  neighbors.  But  it  was  this  inno 
cent  diversion  that  proved  their  ruin  for  religious  preju 
dice  was  a  stranger  to  them  and  one  fatal  Sunday  morn 
ing  passing  church-goers  were  amazed  and  shocked  at 
the  sight  of  their  supposedly  decent  neighbors  busy  with 
mallet  and  ball.  Never  since  the  battle  of  Long  Island 
was  fought  had  such  an  abhorrent  spectacle  been  seen  in 
the  staid  City  of  Churches.  Suspicion  was  instantly 
aroused;  the  New  York  police  were  notified  and  plain- 
clothes  men  paid  a  domiciliary  visit  to  Patchen  Avenue 
which  resulted  in  the  closing  of  the  house  and  the  dis 
appearance  of  its  inmates  from  the  scene. 

I  fear  me  that  those  who  worship  the  Golden  Calf 
in  preference  to  all  other  gods  will  find  but  little  in 
these  memoirs  to  interest  them  for  I  shall  have  not  much 
to  say  about  the  rich  men  of  my  time.  Indeed,  when 
I  consider  that  there  are  more  of  these  idolaters  in  this 
country  than  in  any  other  save  England,  it  is  with  feel 
ings  of  shame  that  I  confess  that  I  probably  know  fewer 
men  of  great  wealth  than  any  New  Yorker  of  my  experi 
ence  and  opportunities  for  acquaintanceship. 

But,  though  I  did  not  know  them  personally,  I  must 
take  note  of  certain  rich  men  of  commercial  achieve 
ment  and  sober  habit  who  figured  conspicuously  in  the 
life  of  the  town  in  my  younger  days.  Cornelius  Vander- 
bilt  was  nearing  the  end  of  his  remarkable  career  and 
could  be  seen  nearly  every  afternoon  behind  a  pair  of 


54  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

swift  trotters  speeding  uptown  to  Judge  Smith's  or  to 
some  other  popular  roadhouse.  Behind  his  residence  on 
Washington  Place  was  his  stable,  and  between  the  two 
buildings  a  ring  where  he  was  wont  to  have  his  horses 
exercised  while  he  watched  them  from  his  piazza.  The 
boys  of  the  neighborhood,  among  whom  was  my  friend 
Gibson  of  Puck,  used  to  be  glad  enough  when  they  were 
allowed  to  exercise  "Mountain  Boy,"  and  other  favorite 
animals  in  the  old  Commodore's  presence.  Mr.  Vander- 
bilt's  knowledge  of  horseflesh  was  inherited  by  his  son 
William  H.  Vanderbilt,  who  in  later  years  developed  re 
markable  skill  in  the  selection  and  matching  of  driving 
pairs.  A  trainer  told  me  once  that  if  Mr.  Vanderbilt  had 
not  been  a  millionaire  he  might  have  become  the  leading 
professional  horseman  of  the  country. 

A  man  much  better  known  to  the  general  public  of 
his  day  was  Peter  Cooper,  whose  career  may  be  traced 
back  to  the  first  decade  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  where 
it  joined  hands  with  that  of  John  Jacob  Astor.  At  that 
time  young  Cooper's  father  followed  the  trade  of  a 
hatter,  and  to  his  shop  the  first  of  the  Astors  came  many 
a  time  with  a  wheelbarrow  load  of  rabbit-skins  to  be 
turned  into  felt.  Here  we  find  the  beginnings  of  the 
man  who  was  destined  to  become  the  most  important  in 
fluence  in  popular  education  and  humanitarianism  that 
the  town  has  yet  known,  and  of  the  founder  of  the  most 
enduring  dynasty  of  wealth  and  social  distinction  in  this 
country. 

Mr.  Cooper  first  awakened  my  personal  interest  when 
as  a  clerk  in  the  Railroad  Gazette  office,  I  was  sent  on  an 
errand  to  the  office  of  the  chief  engineer  of  the  elevafed 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  55 

railroad,  then  in  course  of  construction.  While  I  was 
cooling  my  heels  in  the  outer  office,  Mr.  Cooper  entered, 
literally  dragging  by  the  arm  a  young  man  of  seedy 
appearance  who  bore  with  him  what  I  was  quick  to  recog 
nize  as  the  model  of  an  invention.  The  philanthropist 
was  quickly  admitted  to  the  official  presence  and  as  he 
and  his  companion  passed  through  the  door  I  heard  him 
say:  "Here  is  a  young  man  who  has  made  a  most  re 
markable  invention.  I  demand  that  you  give  him  a 
hearing." 

He  had  brought  the  youthful  inventor  all  the  way 
downtown  in  his  one-horse  chaise  and  I  could  not  help 
wondering  if  there  was  another  man  of  wealth  in  the 
city  who  would  have  done  as  much  for  an  impoverished 
and  unknown  youth. 

Broadway  contained  no  more  familiar  sight  than  Mr. 
Cooper  and  his  one-horse  chaise.  Teamsters,  carriage 
and  omnibus-drivers,  many  of  them  rough  men  who  used 
to  fight  one  another  with  their  whips,  never  failed  to 
give  him  the  right  of  way.  They  accorded  him  the  same 
honor  in  1882  when  he  made  the  trip  for  the  last  time 
through  a  thoroughfare  from  which  every  vehicle  was 
withdrawn,  not  because  of  municipal  orders  but  through 
a  general  desire  to  show  fitting  honor  to  the  dead.  Not 
since  the  mock  funeral  of  General  Washington,  which 
this  humanitarian  had  himself  witnessed  in  boyhood, 
had  such  a  tribute  been  paid  to  departed  worth. 

A  contemporary  of  Mr.  Cooper's,  and  one  whose 
character  and  career  were  in  marked  contrast  to  his,  was 
Alexander  T.  Stewart,  the  founder  of  what  was  in  its 
day  New  York's  greatest  drygoods  business.  Within  my 


56  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

own  memory  Stewart's  retail  store  was  situated  at 
Broadway  and  Chambers  Street  in  the  building  now  oc 
cupied  by  the  Munsey  publications.  Toward  the  end  of 
his  life  the  great  merchant  declared  that  the  one  com 
mercial  mistake  of  his  career  had  been  moving  to  a  place 
as  far  downtown  as  the  present  site  of  the  Wanamaker 
store.  Another  mistake  that  he  made,  which  he  did  not 
live  to  acknowledge,  was  in  persistently  opposing  the 
laying  of  street  car  tracks  on  Broadway,  against  which 
project  he  declared  that  he  was  willing  to  fight  to  the 
extent  of  a  million  dollars.  Time  has  shown,  however, 
that  the  present  line  of  street  cars,  making  the  store 
accessible  to  customers  from  all  parts  of  the  city,  has 
added  enormously  to  the  value  of  the  holding.  When 
built,  the  structure  contained  the  first  elevator  that  I 
can  recall,  but  Mr.  Cooper  had,  as  far  back  as  1859, 
forestalled  the  invention  by  providing  Cooper  Union 
with  a  shaft  running  from  roof  to  basement  and  declar 
ing  that  some  one  would  come  along  soon  and  invent  an 
elevator  to  fit  it. 

Stewart  was  a  mean  man  from  the  north  of  Ireland 
and  in  comparing  him  and  Mr.  Cooper  we  are  strength 
ened  in  our  belief  that  Providence  occasionally  shows 
a  guiding  hand  in  mundane  affairs.  Everything  that  the 
philanthropist  left  behind  him  prospered.  His  son  became 
Mayor  of  New  York  as  did  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Hewitt, 
and  although  he  invested  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  in  the 
Union  and  his  descendants  have  since  then  added  nearly 
three  million  to  its  endowment,  the  family  is  by  no  means 
impoverished. 

Stewart,  on  the  other  hand,  left  nothing  behind  him 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  57 

that  pleasantly  recalls  his  memory  except  the  Garden 
City  Cathedral  and  the  Park  Avenue  Hotel,  and  the 
latter  was  diverted  from  its  original  purpose  as  a  work 
ing-women's  home  to  commercial  use  by  his  executors. 
Of  his  fortune,  practically  nothing  remains,  and  the  huge 
marble  home  that  he  erected  on  the  corner  of  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  has  long  since  dis 
appeared.  For  years  it  was  the  home  of  his  widow,  a 
solitary  and  desolate  figure  in  all  that  grandeur.  As  for 
the  business  that  he  created,  it  passed  through  the  hands 
of  more  than  one  merchant  before  it  was  purchased  by 
Mr.  Wanamaker.  So  little  was  Stewart  esteemed  that 
the  stealing  of  his  body  from  its  grave  created  a  sen 
sation  but  failed  to  arouse  popular  sympathy. 

The  fortunes  acquired  during  the  Civil  War  and  the 
early  years  of  the  "Flash  Age"  gave  to  some  of  their 
possessors  social  ambitions  that  made  them  conspicuous 
in  the  outer  circles  of  a  society  firmly  established  in  ante 
bellum  days.  The  new-comers  sought  to  advance  them 
selves  by  means  of  costly  entertainments  that  taxed  the 
extreme  limits  of  their  insecure  visiting  lists.  And  it 
was  their  frequent  need  of  dancing  men  that  furnished 
one  Brown,  the  sexton  of  Grace  Church,  with  a  golden 
opportunity  of  which  he  was  not  slow  to  avail  himself. 
He  mobilized  a  corps  of  fairly  presentable  youths  who 
could  dance,  known  as  "Brown's  young  men,"  and  sup 
plied  them  as  required  just  as  the  caterer  filled  his  orders 
for  ice  cream  and  creamed  oysters.  Brown's  young  men 
were  a  product  and  symbol  of  the  period  in  which  they 
flourished,  and  with  the  close  of  that  era  they  vanished 
from  the  carpeted  floors  that  their  nimble  feet  had  trod, 


58  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Local  legendry,  however,  affirms  that  one  or  two  of 
them  subsequently  climbed  to  loftier  social  heights 
through  marriage  with  heiresses  whose  waists  they  had 
clasped  in  the  dance. 

During  the  early  Seventies  the  direful  work  of  re 
placing  the  city's  comfortable  old-fashioned  hotels  with 
structures  then  considered  modern  began  with  the  build 
ing  of  the  Windsor  and  the  Buckingham.  I  think  the 
Grand  Central,  now  the  Broadway  Central,  dates  from 
the  late  Sixties,  for  it  was  there  that  Stokes  shot  Fisk. 
We  young  fellows  declared  all  three  to  be  marvels  of 
taste  and  luxury,  and  the  Buckingham  still  remains  an 
excellent  house.  The  Windsor,  erected  on  the  site  of  the 
old  skating  pond,  was  destroyed  by  fire  some  years  ago, 
but  the  Broadway  Central  is  an  interesting  survival  of  a 
hostelry  of  half  a  century  past.  Its  bar  with  its  regi- 
ment  of  expert  drink-mixers  has  of  course  vanished,  but 
its  main  hall  and  lobby,  paved  with  marble,  its  huge 
dining-room,  in  which  meals  on  the  now  obsolete  Amer 
ican  plan  are  served  by  bands  of  colored  waiters,  and 
the  vast  expanse  of  sleeping  chambers  on  its  upper  floors 
make  it  well  worth  the  study  of  the  local  archaeologist 
and  antiquarian. 

The  crusade  thus  inaugurated  did  not  end  until 
travelers  found  themselves  housed  in  those  gaudy  modern 
structures  whose  rooms  are  like  cracks  in  the  earth  with 
wall-paper  on  them.  Gone  are  the  old  New  York  Hotel 
with  its  quiet  courtyard,  the  Clarendon,  Everett,  St. 
Nicholas  and  historic  Astor  House,  in  every  one  of  which 
the  guest  could  sit  before  an  open  fire  in  his  own  room. 
It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  in  no  respect  has 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  59 

New  York  shown  such  marked  material  progress  as 
in  the  evolution  of  the  convenient  and  luxurious  apart 
ment  house  from  the  dark  tenement  of  my  early  days. 
The  first  of  these  apartments  were  called  "French  flats" 
and  philosophers  of  that  day  predicted  that  "French 
flats"  were  the  precursors  of  French  morals,  and  I  am 
not  sure  whether  that  prophecy  has  been  fulfilled  or  not. 
The  earliest  apartment  house  that  I  recall  was  the  Haight 
House,  rebuilt  from  the  old  time  residence  of  the  family 
of  that  name  at  the  southeast  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Fifteenth  Street;  the  Stuyvesant,  in  Eighteenth 
Street,  west  of  Third  Avenue,  and  one  on  the  south  side 
of  Thirteenth  Street,  west  of  Second  Avenue.  Of  these 
the  Stuyvesant  alone  remains. 

New  York  was  already  on  the  way  to  become  a  leader 
in  letters  as  she  was  then  in  the  fine  arts.  For  this  was  the 
age  of  what  has  been  called  the  "North  River  school" 
of  artists,  often  sneered  at  by  those  who  style  themselves 
"moderns"  but  nevertheless  worthy  of  an  honored  place 
in  the  history  of  the  city's  artistic  development.  One  of 
the  most  conspicuous  of  these  was  Albert  Bierstadt, 
whose  huge  canvas,  "The  Heart  of  the  Andes,"  was 
exhibited  with  almost  sensational  success  and  is  now,  I 
am  told,  reposing  in  a  museum  in  one  of  the  smaller 
Vermont  towns.  Other  artists  of  this  school  who  were 
among  my  father's  friends  were  S.  R.  Gifford,  Frederick 
E.  Church,  Worthington  Whittredge,  John  F.  Kensett 
and  George  H.  Hall.  Henry  K.  Brown,  who  made  the 
first  and  perhaps  the  best  equestrian  statue  ever  erected 
in  New  York,  that  of  Washington  in  Union  Square,  fre 
quently  came  to  our  house,  and  I  remember  going  with 


60  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

my  father  as  a  very  small  boy  to  call  on  a  sculptor  whom 
he  predicted  would  live  to  enjoy  great  fame  and  whose 
name  was  J.  Q.  A.  Ward.  Artists  trod  a  stony  path,  for 
book  and  magazine  illustrations  offered  scant  opportu 
nity  and  small  recompense  for  pot-boiling.  Therefore 
they  used  to  earn  a  little  extra  money  by  painting  the 
panels  in  the  Broadway  omnibuses  and  many  of  these 
now  forgotten  landscapes  though  unsigned  were  from 
the  brushes  of  artists  of  later  high  distinction. 

Boston  was  the  literary  centre  of  the  country  during 
New  York's  "Flash  Age"  and  the  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  may  be  said  to  have  held  the  tuning  fork  which 
set  the  literary  pitch  for  the  nation.  Henry  James  and 
William  D.  Howells  were  laying  the  foundations  of  their 
fame,  and  Mark  Twain  and  Bret  Harte  were  looming  up 
in  the  far  west.  There  were  two  houses  in  New  York 
which  were  conspicuous  because  of  the  celebrities  enter 
tained  there.  One  of  these  was  that  of  Mrs.  Vincenzo 
Botta,  a  Connecticut  poetess  wedded  to  an  Italian  scholar. 
Mrs.  Botta  made  a  specialty  of  foreign  singers,  actors 
and  artists,  and  her  drawing-room  often  contained  men 
and  women  of  the  highest  distinction,  Americans  as  well 
as  foreigners.  The  other  house  was  the  home  of  Alice 
and  Phoebe  Gary,  writers  of  genuine  ability  who  had 
come  from  Ohio  to  New  York  and  may  be  named  as 
among  the  earliest  of  our  succession  of  literary  women. 
They  made  many  friends  here  and  their  habit  of  enter 
taining  them  on  Sunday  evening  was  regarded  by  the 
conservative  element  with  distinct  disapproval. 

But  if  Boston  claimed  pre-eminence  in  the  world  of 
letters,  New  York  was  not  lacking  in  writers  of  distinc- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  61 

tion,  for  it  numbered  among  its  citizens  such  men  as 
William  Cullen  Bryant,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  George  William 
Curtis,  E.  C.  Stedman,  George  Bancroft  and  Bayard 
Taylor.  Mr.  Bryant  occupied  for  many  years  and  until 
his  death  in  1878  a  high  place  in  the  esteem  of  the  town, 
for  he  was  not  only  a  poet  and  the  editor  of  the  Evening 
Post,  but  was  also  prominent  in  civic  matters. 

The  esteem  in  which  Mr.  Bryant  was  held  by  persons 
of  the  highest  repute  was  evidenced  in  the  so-called 
"Bryant  Festival,"  in  his  honor  on  the  occasion  of  his 
seventieth  birthday  in  November,  1864.  At  this  festival 
there  were  addresses,  poems  and  letters  read  or  delivered, 
not  only  by  his  associates  in  the  club,  but  by  men  and 
women  of  such  renown  as  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  James 
Russell  Lowell,  Catharine  Sedgwick,  George  H.  Boker, 
Goldwin  Smith  and  others. 

A  group  of  writers  very  different  from  those  to  be 
found  within  the  Century  walls  was  that  known  as  "the 
PfafT  crowd"  whose  headquarters  were  in  the  beer  cellar 
of  a  Swiss  publican  and  who  styled  themselves  bo- 
hemians,  having  taken  the  term  from  Henri  Murger's 
famous  book.  Harry  Clapp,  the  editor  of  the  Saturday 
Press,  was  the  acknowledged  king  of  this  bohemia  and 
an  actress  named  Ada  Clare  its  queen.  Among  those 
who  were  wont  to  gather  around  PfafFs  long  table  were 
Fitz-James  O'Brien,  an  extremely  gifted  young  Irish 
man  who  was  killed  in  the  early  days  of  the  Civil  War; 
Artemus  Ward,  George  Arnold,  E.  C.  Stedman  and 
Georges  Clemenceau,  whose  picture  in  a  yellow  frame 
hung  upon  the  wall.  The  bohemians  affected,  or  per 
haps  felt,  a  contempt  for  the  more  polite  and  conserva- 


62  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

tive  world  of  letters  and  disliked  Emerson  because  he 
had  referred  to  their  idol,  Edgar  Poe,  as  "the  jingle- 
man."  Nevertheless,  as  later  years  proved,  there  was 
much  talent  among  them.  I  was  of  course  too  young  to 
have  a  share  in  these  revels  and  it  was  not  until  much 
later  that  I  learned  of  them,  but  once,  in  the  early 
Seventies,  I  descended  into  that  cellar  and  saw,  seated 
about  that  table,  a  few  survivors  of  the  old  crowd,  an 
occasion  to  which  I  shall  allude  in  a  later  chapter. 

Of  course  what  I  have  written  of  this  period  can  hardly 
be  said  to  come  within  the  scope  of  my  personal  recol 
lections,  but  the  newspapers  of  the  day  gave  ample  cur 
rency  to  all  its  extravagance  and  vulgarity  and  the  im 
morality  and  thievery  that  went  on,  unrebuked  in  high 
and  low  places,  so  that  even  school-boys  could  not  wholly 
escape  their  malign  influence.  The  conditions  that  I  have 
described  literally  ended  in  a  single  night  with  the  panic 
of  1873.  Years  afterward  a  friend  of  mine  who  lived 
then  in  the  Haight  House,  situated  at  the  corner  of  Fif 
teenth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  and  connected  with  Del- 
monico's  next  door  by  a  passageway,  told  me  that  up  to 
the  moment  of  the  panic  there  was  a  constant  succession 
of  waiters  between  the  two  buildings,  bearing  costly  food 
and  wines  and  that  that  procession  ceased,  never  to  re 
turn,  the  day  after  the  panic  began. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  end  of  my  boyhood  was  almost  coincident  with 
that  of  the  "Flash  Age"  and  I  was  seventeen  years 
old  when  I  went  to  work.  I  called  myself  a  civil  en 
gineer  but  I  was  merely  a  rodman  on  the  Long  Island 
City  survey  under  George  S.  Greene,  Jr.,  famous  for 
his  topographical  work.  I  obtained  the  position  through 
my  elder  brother,  Arthur,  and  we  lived  in  Astoria,  then 
one  of  the  oldest  and  most  attractive  of  the  city's  sub 
urbs,  the  home  of  the  Barclay,  Blackwell,  Larocque,  Pol- 
hemus  and  other  well-known  families.  Despite  its  near 
ness  to  the  metropolis,  being  separated  only  by  the  East 
River,  it  was  so  far  distant  through  lack  of  means  of 
communication  that  when  we  visited  the  theatre  at  night 
we  were  obliged  to  return  in  a  rowboat.  I  chained  my 
way  through  every  field  and  garden  in  the  place  and 
also  helped  in  the  survey  of  Riker's,  the  North  and 
South  Brother,  and  Berrian  Islands.  The  last-named  was 
a  bit  of  sand  covered  with  coarse  sea  grass  and  situated 
in  a  desolate  spot  east  of  Astoria.  There  was  an  old 
barn  on  it  and  sometimes  we  saw  a  boat  moored  to  a 
stake  near  by.  Not  until  years  afterward  did  I  learn 
who  owned  that  boat. 

The  kidnapping  of  Charlie  Ross  in  1876  stirred  the 
whole  nation  as  a  crime  of  this  sort  never  fails  to  awaken 


64  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

widespread  indignation.  Although  every  effort  was  made 
to  ^ecover  the  boy,  it  was  not  until  two  or  three  years 
later  that  the  identity  of  his  abductors  was  made  known. 
It  was  on  the  premises  of  Judge  Van  Brunt  of  Bay 
Ridge,  that  this  fact  was  revealed  in  one  of  the  most 
dramatic  episodes  in  the  criminal  history  of  the  country. 
Awakened  one  night  by  unusual  sounds  the  Judge  and 
his  nephew  went  downstairs  and  surprised  two  thieves 
endeavoring  to  enter  the  house.  Shots  were  exchanged 
and  the  two  marauders  fell  to  the  ground  mortally 
wounded.  As  the  Judge  bent  over  one  of  them  the  latter 
said,  speaking  with  much  difficulty:  "It's  all  up  with 
me  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  we  are  the  men  who 
stole  Charlie  Ross !" 

"Where  is  the  boy?"  demanded  the  Judge  eagerly. 

But  the  other  was  too  far  gone  for  adequate  reply 
and  could  only  say:  "Ask  Joe;  he  knows."  And  with 
these  words  he  expired.  The  Judge  went  at  once  to  the 
other  man  but  he  was  already  dead  and  with  him  died 
the  secret  of  Charlie  Ross's  abduction. 

It  was  not  until  some  time  after  this  occurrence  that 
I  learned  that  these  two  river  thieves  were  the  ones  who 
had  used  Berrian  Island  as  their  hang-out  and  I  have 
always  believed  that  the  boy  died  and  was  buried  on  that 
desolate  strip  of  sand. 

While  living  in  Astoria,  I  became  acquainted  with  a 
family  named  Hatch,  consisting  of  a  father  and  mother 
and  a  much-loved  daughter.  Some  years  later  the  young 
lady  died  and  the  grief-stricken  parents  sought  surcease 
from  sorrow  in  Spiritualism  and  held  Sunday  seances 
in  their  home  at  which,  they  firmly  believed,  the  spirit  of 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  65 

their  daughter  was  present.  It  was  not  until  the  begin 
ning  of  the  present  century  that  mere  accident  threw  in 
my  way  a  bit  of  information  that  connected  this  family 
with  one  of  our  greatest  national  tragedies.  It  seems 
that  President  Garfield  learned  of  these  seances  through 
a  mutual  friend,  became  deeply  interested  and  arranged 
to  be  present  at  one  of  them.  It  was  for  this  purpose 
that  he  started  for  New  York  the  day  he  was  shot.  I 
cannot  absolutely  guarantee  this  story  as  I  can  others  in 
these  memoirs.  It  came  to  me  in  two  or  three  detached 
fragments,  bits  of  circumstantial  evidence  which  fitted 
in  with  what  I  already  knew.  From  this  I  wove  a  web, 
not  strong  enough  to  hang  a  man  but  sufficient  to  sus 
tain  a  story  that  does  not  reflect  discredit  on  any  of  the 
parties  concerned,  especially  when  supplemented  by  this 
frank  acknowledgment. 

The  "Flash  Age"  was  succeeded  by  half  a  dozen  years 
of  sobriety,  commercial  and  social  depression  and  en 
forced  economy  that  undoubtedly  helped  to  bring  on  the 
great  Moody  and  Sankey  revival  which  forced  many  to 
their  knees  in  the  dust  and  ashes  of  a  short-lived  peni 
tence.  So  barren  were  these  years  of  melodramatic  in 
cidents  of  the  kind  that  punctuate  the  records  of  the 
"Flash  Age"  that  the  Beecher  scandal  created  a  wave  of 
feverish  interest  that  spread  with  incredible  swiftness 
to  every  part  of  the  country.  For  the  first  time  in  its 
history  Brooklyn  took  first  place  in  the  thoughts  of  the 
entire  nation.  As  the  long  trial  proceeded  the  excite 
ment  increased,  which  is  all  the  more  to  be  wondered 
at  when  we  consider  that  both  parties  to  the  suit  were 
middle-aged  and  that  not  even  the  frequent  printing  of 


66  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Tilton,  which  showed  her  to  have 
been  denied  the  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  could  lessen  the 
public  hysteria.  Discussions  of  the  unsavory  topic  drove 
the  dove  of  peace  from  once  happy  boarding-houses. 
Passengers  on  railroad  trains  were  invited  to  vote  guilty 
or  innocent  on  ballots  cast  into  a  hat.  The  renown  of 
the  eminent  counsel  engaged  on  the  case  became  nation 
wide  and  many  a  reporter  like  Julian  Ralph  and  T.  H. 
Hamilton  lived  to  bless  the  Beecher  trial  for  giving 
him  his  first  great  opportunity. 

The  panic  of  1873  found  me  working  as  a  clerk  in  a 
factory  in  Newark  where  I  learned  something  about  the 
relations  between  labor,  capital  and  brains  that  not  all 
the  harangues  of  professional  labor  leaders  nor  the  dis 
sertations  of  the  theorists  who  seem  unaware  of  the 
value  of  the  third  element  in  the  equation  have  ever 
driven  out  of  my  head. 

One  thing  that  I  learned  was  the  value  of  the  old- 
fashioned  guild  of  workmen  as  compared  with  the 
modern  political  machine  made  up  of  many  trades  unions. 
And  the  superior  benefits  of  the  former  are  shared  by 
workers,  employers  and  the  general  public.  At  this  time 
the  best  silver-plating  was  done  by  hand,  while  electro 
plating  was  used  only  on  cheaper  goods.  The  hand- 
platers,  who  were  largely  British,  had  their  guild  which 
fixed  the  prices  of  all  piece-work.  One  day  my  em 
ployer,  at  that  time  rather  new  to  the  business,  told  me 
to  go  upstairs  and  inform  the  platers  that  he  had  de 
cided  to  cut  down  these  prices  ten  per  cent.  The  men 
received  the  message  with  perfect  nonchalance  and  ac 
knowledged  it  only  by  taking  off  their  aprons,  putting 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  67 

on  their  coats  and  lighting  their  pipes,  while  I,  chuckling 
inwardly,  returned  to  the  office  to  await  further  pro 
ceedings. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  soon  a  slow-moving  proces 
sion  of  artisans  strolled  past  us  on  their  way  to  the 
outer  door. 

"James,"  cried  my  boss  excitedly,  "where  are  those 
men  going?  Tell  them  to  come  back  and  finish  up  those 
orders!" 

When  I  told  him  that  they  were  going  out  on  strike 
because  the  prices  had  been  cut  down  he  seemed 
astounded  at  their  audacity,  but  recovered  in  time  to  call 
them  back  and  beg  them  to  return.  This  they  reluc 
tantly  consented  to  do,  and  thereafter  no  further  attempts 
were  made  to  lower  their  wages. 

This  guild  limited  the  number  of  its  apprentices,  ad 
mitting  none  save  first-class  artisans,  and  rigorously 
maintained  a  high  standard  of  workmanship.  It  de 
manded  and  received  a  high  rate  of  compensation  at  a 
time  when,  at  least  in  our  shop,  few  men  earned  as  much 
as  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  The  benefit  to  the  customer  is 
obvious;  that  the  employers  realized  it  also  is  evidenced 
by  the  fact  that  it  was  hard  for  any  hand-plater  who 
could  not  show  a  ticket  of  membership  to  get  work  in 
any  factory  in  Newark. 

It  was  soon  after  the  panic  and  at  the  very  beginning 
of  this  period  of  dull  and  dreary  depression  that  I  entered 
the  office  of  the  Railroad  Gazette  and  began  to  learn 
something  about  publishing.  Business  was  in  a  deplor 
able  state  at  this  time  and  I  remember  that  I  solicited 
advertisements  for  several  months  with  most  discourag- 


68  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

ing  results.  At  last,  however,  I  returned  in  triumph  to 
the  office  with  an  order  for  a  single  insertion  of  the 
notice  of  a  railroad  directors'  meeting,  the  price  of  which 
was  two  dollars.  Desirous  of  improving  my  French  I 
lived  at  a  French  boarding-house  chiefly  inhabited  by 
Germans,  but  at  my  end  of  the  table  there  were  three  or 
four  Genevese  Swiss  and  the  conversation  was  carried 
on  in  the  French  tongue.  It  was  here  that  I  first  became 
interested  in  foreigners  and  it  was  this  interest  that  led 
me  in  later  years  into  all  sorts  of  queer  society.  I  learned 
here  the  superiority  of  such  an  establishment  over  its 
American  counterpart.  The  conversation  was  informa 
tive,  the  food  excellent,  and  we  took  turns  in  making 
the  salad.  When  my  week  came  around  I  received  much 
frank  and  valuable  criticism  and  was  taught  to  dry  the 
lettuce  leaves  before  putting  on  the  oil  and  vinegar.  A 
great  many  persons  have  not  learned  this  yet. 

When  I  entered  the  office  of  the  Gazette  the  means  of 
communication  between  uptown  and  down  were  lum 
bering  stage-coaches  on  Broadway  and  street  cars  in 
other  thoroughfares.  The  agitation  for  a  better  system 
had  culminated  in  the  appointment  of  a  Rapid  Transit 
Committee  of  which  the  editor  of  the  Gazette,  Mr.  M.  N. 
Forney,  was  a  member.  Thus  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  obtain 
the  earliest  estimate  of  the  city's  daily  passenger  traffic, 
which  I  did  by  standing  in  a  doorway  at  different  hours 
of  the  day  and  guessing  at  the  number  of  people  who 
went  by  on  foot  and  in  cars.  Many  were  the  plans  for 
underground  as  well  as  overhead  and  surface  traffic  that 
were  advanced  in  those  days.  Mr.  Peter  Cooper  had 
already  excited  general  ridicule  by  suggesting  an  endless 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  69 

wire  cord  coiled  around  a  drum,  and  eleven  years  later 
the  first  of  the  cable  cars  was  installed  in  New  York. 
Another  scheme  that  was  in  advance  of  its  time  was 
that  of  a  certain  Melville  Smith,  who  wished  to  build 
what  he  called  an  Arcade  Railway,  to  run  in  a  street  to  be 
created  directly  under  Broadway  with  four  tracks  and  a 
system  by  which,  during  the  slack  hours,  freight  could 
be  delivered  at  the  basement  doors  of  the  business  houses. 
But  that  and  all  other  underground  schemes  were  re 
jected  because  of  the  smoke  nuisance,  for  electricity  had 
not  then  been  developed  to  the  extent  that  it  has  now. 

It  was  during  the  early  Seventies  that  I  made  my  first 
acquaintance  with  the  then  beautiful  Passaic  Valley. 
My  family  were  spending  the  winter  in  Belleville  and 
the  first  time  I  visited  them  I  crossed  the  Newark 
marshes  from  Jersey  City  in  a  stage  coach,  that  being 
about  the  only  means  of  communication  on  a  Sunday. 
It  was  a  beautiful  river  then,  lined  on  both  sides  with  fine 
old-fashioned  country  houses,  many  of  which  were 
owned  by  persons  of  social  distinction.  The  Van  Rens- 
selaer  mansion,  now  one  of  the  landmarks  of  Belleville, 
was  still  the  home  of  the  family  of  that  name,  and 
William  Travers  Jerome  had  a  country  place  directly 
opposite  the  home  of  the  Satterthwaite  family.  The 
Satterthwaites,  on  the  distaff  side,  were  friends  of  ours 
for  more  than  one  generation  and  it  was  in  the  kitchen 
of  Mr.  Satterthwaite' s  early  New  York  home  on  lower 
Broadway  that  Commodore  Vanderbilt  had  paid  court  to 
his  first  wife,  then  employed  there  as  cook. 

The  first  time  I  ever  visited  this  fine  old  house  on  the 
banks  of  the  Passaic,  I  wanted  to  live  in  it  and  a  quarter 


70  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

of  a  century  later  I  did  occupy  it  during  two  sum 
mers. 

But  by  this  time  a  sad  change  had  come  over  the 
valley;  the  shad-nets  that  used  to  stand  in  front  of  the 
hospitable  old  houses — Passaic  shad  were  famous  in  the 
old  days — were  gone  and  the  river  had  become  a 
sewer  for  the  town  of  Paterson.  I  fear  that  its  glory 
as  a  place  of  residence  has  long  since  departed.  The 
Satterthwaite  estate,  which  extended  to  the  wooded  slope 
above  the  river,  had  become  the  village  of  Nutley  with 
many  Queen  Anne  houses  in  which  many  artists  and 
men  of  letters  have  lived  at  one  time  or  another,  among 
them  Bunner,  Stockton,  Ripley  Hitchcock,  Frank 
Fowler,  Arthur  Hoeber,  E.  L.  Field  and  Colonel  H.  G. 
Prout,  editor  of  the  Railroad  Gazette. 

The  first  of  the  literary  acquaintances  whom  I  after 
ward  came  to  know  well  was  Frank  R.  Stockton,  whom 
I  met  during  my  term  of  service  on  the  Railroad  Gazette. 
The  publisher  of  the  Gazette  was  William  H.  Boardman, 
who  was  at  that  time  boarding  with  the  Stocktons  in 
Rutherford,  N.  J.,  and  who  afterward  figured  as  the 
boarder  in  Mr.  Stockton's  delightfully  humorous  Rud 
der  Grange.  This  story  had  a  certain  foundation,  in 
fact,  and  was  suggested  by  a  canal  boat  that  lay  rotting 
on  the  shore  of  the  near-by  Passaic  River.  Pomona,  the 
maid-servant,  was  drawn  from  life  and  Boardman  often 
told  me  that  as  he  sat  at  work  in  the  dining-room  on 
summer  evenings  he  could  hear  her  reading  half  aloud 
her  novelettes  of  high  life  exactly  as  she  is  described  in 
the  book.  Mr.  Stockton,  who  was  at  that  time  editor  of 
St.  Nicholas,  was  a  slender,  delicate  man,  slightly  lame 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  71 

and  with  wonderful  dark  eyes.  He  had  a  distinct  charm 
of  manner  and  was  fortunate  in  imparting  that  quality 
to  his  work. 

The  first  reportorial  work  that  I  ever  undertook  was 
for  the  Railroad  Gazette  when  I  was  sent  on  a  trip  to 
Rondout  to  describe  a  new  process  for  the  conversion 
of  coal-dust  into  fuel.  I  shall  never  forget  the  pride 
and  delight  that  filled  my  soul  as  I  stepped  aboard  the 
Hudson  River  steamboat.  "Little  do  these  passengers 
dream  that  I  am  a  reporter,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  walked 
proudly  down  the  gangway.  Not  even  the  presence  of 
a  dozen  real  reporters  could  rob  me  of  my  self-impor 
tance  and  I  greatly  enjoyed  the  deference  with  which  I 
was  treated  by  the  organizers  of  the  expedition.  Still 
greater  was  my  delight  when  I  read  my  account  in  the 
columns  of  the  Gazette  and  realized  that  I  was  actually 
in  print. 

My  next  reportorial  work  was  for  a  moribund  weekly 
paper  called  The  Atlas  in  which  I  recorded  the  delibera 
tions  of  an  organization  called  "The  Farmers'  Club" 
which,  thanks  to  the  kindness  of  Peter  Cooper,  had 
headquarters  rent  free  in  Cooper  Union.  This  organiza 
tion  had  enjoyed  no  small  importance  in  the  days  when 
Horace  Greeley  was  prominent  in  it,  but  there  remained 
now  but  a  shadow  of  its  former  greatness.  I  don't  think 
there  was  a  single  real  farmer  in  it,  but  there  were  still 
a  few  manufacturers  and  distillers  in  the  town  who  had 
faith  in  its  influence.  It  had  the  customary  set  of  officers 
and  these  gentlemen  would  prowl  about  among  these  be 
lievers,  suggesting  the  value  of  a  visit  of  inspection  by 
the  club,  promising  that  the  occasion  would  be  fittingly 


72  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

celebrated  in  the  press.  Their  efforts  were  among  the 
manufacturers  of  light  portable  articles;  they  never  cared 
to  visit  an  iron  foundry  or  a  tombstone  maker.  When 
such  a  visit  was  arranged  the  farmers  would  swoop  down 
upon  their  victim  like  a  swarm  of  locusts,  inspect  every 
thing  with  solemn  mien  and  carry  off  as  souvenirs  of  the 
event  whatever  they  were  allowed  to  lay  hands  on.  The 
banner  expedition  in  my  time  was  to  a  New  Jersey  vine 
yard,  whence  we  returned  with  spoils  in  the  shape  of 
bottles  of  wine  and  brandy  that  taxed  the  capacity  of 
our  pockets. 

Thus  far  I  had  not  found  any  sort  of  employment 
that  was  entirely  to  my  taste,  for  I  had  always  desired 
to  be  a  real  writer,  to  which  course  all  my  relatives  were 
stoutly  opposed,  and  I  had  even  tried  to  obtain  the  post 
of  New  York  correspondent  for  some  provincial  journal. 
It  was  in  this  fashion  that  young  men  of  this  period 
were  wont  to  break  into  the  profession  of  letters. 
Nearly  every  out-of-town  newspaper  printed  a  regular 
New  York  letter  and  if  I  had  only  known  anything  about 
New  York  or  had  been  able  to  describe  it  properly,  I 
might  have  obtained  such  an  opportunity. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  depression  that  a  chance 
acquaintance,  which  soon  developed  into  an  intimacy, 
decided  the  choice  of  my  occupation.  Frederic  S.  Daniel 
was  a  newspaper  man  of  a  type  now  extinct,  and  it  was 
his  talk  of  his  many  experiences  that  gave  me  a  rosy  view 
of  journalism  and  fired  my  imagination  and  ambition. 
His  brother,  John  W.  Daniel,  of  Virginia,  had  been  our 
Minister  to  Rome  in  the  days  when  it  was  a  Papal  State 
and  my  friend  had  served  as  Secretary  of  Legation,  a 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  73 

post  that  had  given  him  opportunities  to  meet  many 
persons  of  distinction  and  acquire  a  knowledge  of  Euro 
pean  affairs.  At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  in  which  he 
had  fought  as  a  Confederate  soldier,  while  his  brother 
edited  the  Richmond  Examiner,  he  returned  to  Italy  as 
a  newspaper  correspondent  with  a  so-called  "roving  com 
mission"  of  a  kind  now  unknown. 

Many  an  evening  has  Daniel  held  me  spell-bound  with 
recital  of  the  many  events  of  historical  importance  that 
had  passed  before  his  eyes.  At  the  close  of  the  war  he 
went  out  of  Richmond  in  the  same  car  with  Jefferson 
Davis  and  his  cabinet.  He  was  in  the  first  train  that 
passed  through  the  Mont  Cenis  Tunnel.  He  heard  the 
Pope  read  the  "Allocution  of  Infallibility"  in  the  Vati 
can.  He  saw  Louis  Napoleon  at  the  very  height  of  his 
power  and  renown  as  he  entered  Turin  with  Victor 
Emmanuel  at  the  end  of  the  victorious  Italian  campaign, 
and  he  saw  him  leaving  the  field  of  Sedan  with  his  train 
of  baggage,  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  his  immobile 
face  giving  no  sign  of  the  bitterness  he  must  have  felt. 
Not  many  months  later  Daniel  witnessed  the  crowning 
of  the  Emperor  William  at  Versailles,  and  still  later 
entered  Paris  with  the  Prussian  army.  His  acquaintance 
had  been  very  wide.  In  his  younger  days  he  had  quaffed 
many  a  cup  with  good  company  in  Pfaff's  cellar;  a  cousin 
of  Moncure  D.  Conway,  he  had  known  well  the  life  of 
literary  London,  and  while  in  Rome  he  had  been  on 
friendly  terms  with  such  statesmen  as  Cardinal  Antonelli 
and  Count  Cavour. 

One  story  that  Daniel  told  me  is  worth  repeating  here. 
In  the  early  summer  of  1870  while  Europe  was  ap- 


74  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

patently  in  a  state  of  profound  peace  he  was  living  in 
Rome  as  the  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Herald. 
Great  was  his  surprise  one  day  when  he  received  from 
the  elder  Bennett  in  New  York,  this  terse  cable  message : 
"Go  to  Berlin  and  follow  the  army."  He  obeyed  the 
command  without  knowing  what  army  he  was  to  follow 
or  where  it  might  lead  him,  and  it  was  not  until  a  week 
later  that  he  learned  through  diplomatic  channels  of  the 
probable  rupture  of  relations  between  France  and  Prus 
sia.  He  followed  the  army  to  the  gates  of  Paris  in  com 
pany  with  Archibald  Forbes,  and  when  that  greatest  of 
war  correspondents  visited  New  York,  Daniel  took  me 
to  call  on  him. 

Hearing  all  this  and  of  the  manner  in  which  the  most 
reckless  drafts  on  the  home  office  were  honored,  the  pro 
fession  of  journalism  loomed  larger  than  ever  in  my 
mind  and,  as  I  now  realize,  had  much  to  do  with  shaping 
my  destiny.  Daniel  was  one  of  the  truest  bohemians 
I  have  ever  known  for  he  was  also  a  gentleman  by  birth 
and  instinct,  and  such  as  he  make  the  best  of  the  bohemian 
caste  as  they  are  devoid  of  the  social  snobbery  that  so 
often  poisons  bohemia's  cup.  His  discourse,  therefore, 
made  me  believe  that,  "I  would  rather  live  in  bohemia 
than  in  any  other  land/'  to  quote  Boyle  O'Reilly.  I  may 
add  that  the  customs  prevalent  in  some  parts  of  that 
land  have  disillusioned  me,  while  the  difficulties  I  have 
since  encountered  in  getting  an  expense  bill  of  $2.75 
past  the  city  editor's  desk  have  completely  dispelled  the 
myth  of  reckless  expenditure  in  newspaper  management. 

Two  episodes  that  disturbed  the  monotony  of  this  dull 
age  were  the  Centennial  Exposition  and  the  short-lived 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  75 

vogue  of  blue  glass  rays  as  a  cure-all,  both  of  which  led 
to  the  spending  of  a  little  money — not  much,  of  course, 
but  enough  to  cause  the  hopeful  to  declare  that  business 
was  reviving.  Pocket  books  long  closed,  flew  open  at 
the  call  of  the  Centennial  Exposition,  an  event  that 
seemed  to  presage  a  still  further  revival  of  commerce, 
for  the  belief  was  widespread  that  to  "keep  the  money 
in  circulation"  was  a  panacea  for  all  financial  ills. 

I  spent  a  week  at  the  Exposition  and  saw  there  the 
first  reigning  sovereign  my  eyes  had  ever  rested  on  in 
the  person  of  that  indefatigable  sight-seer  and  searcher 
after  knowledge,  the  Emperor  of  Brazil.  Despite  the 
years  made  evident  by  his  white  hairs,  he  rushed  from 
one  exhibit  to  another  with  his  perspiring  escort  at  his 
heels,  examining  everything  and  startling  the  exhibitors 
by  the  vigor  of  his  inquiries.  An  acquaintance  of  mine 
serving  on  the  committee  appointed  to  entertain  him 
paused  long  enough  in  his  flight  to  say  to  me  as  he  wiped 
the  sweat  from  his  brow :  "I  wish  to  God  he'd  go  home ! 
We're  all  of  us  pretty  near  dead!" 

Two  Parisian  gourmands,  whom  I  knew,  took  me  to 
the  restaurant  opened  by  the  proprietors  of  the  famous 
Trois  Freres  Provenqaux  at  a  scale  of  prices  that  had 
already  staggered  the  provincial  and  even  the  urban 
dwellers  in  America.  We  feasted  luxuriously  and  our 
cheque  for  the  meal,  including  a  bottle  of  wine  was 
about  six  dollars,  the  largest  sum  I  had  ever  seen  paid 
for  a  single  meal. 

In  prying  open  countless  pockets,  flat  as  well  as 
bulging,  the  Exposition  gave  to  the  nation  something  far 
better  than  the  hoped-for  revival  of  business;  it  stimu- 


76  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

lated  an  interest  in  things  above  the  material  side  of 
life  as  no  public  display  had  ever  done  before  and  as  none 
has  done  since.  That  it  attracted  from  every  corner 
of  the  land  persons  of  the  most  limited  means  proves 
that  as  a  nation  we  are,  or  were  then,  eager  to  learn. 
It  rendered  many  services  in  an  educational  way  and 
none  greater  than  that  which  created  an  interest  in 
various  forms  of  art  and  a  new  delight  in  its  beauty. 
Its  exhibition  of  paintings  proved  a  revelation  to  thou 
sands  who  had  seen  but  few  pictures  before  and  had 
never  given  serious  consideration  to  either  form  or  color. 
A  much  larger  class  and  one  that  included  persons  of 
culture  and  refinement  learned  something  of  the  possi 
bilities  of  household  decoration  and  were  quick  to  make 
practical  use  of  what  they  learned.  Chromos  soon  went 
into  eclipse;  "I'm  Grandmama  now"  and  "Fast  Asleep" 
and  "Wide  Awake"  vanished  from  cottage  walls. 

I  think  it  was  the  Exposition  that  gave  the  death-blow 
to  the  sombre  furnishings  of  black  walnut  which  encum 
bered  our  drawing-rooms;  it  certainly  served  to  shake 
our  faith  in  the  heavy  sofas  and  chairs,  stuffed  to  the 
point  of  apoplexy,  which  bore  silent  testimony  to  the  en 
during  worth  of  the  Victorian  Age.  As  mosquitos  carry 
contagion,  so  did  visitors  return  from  Philadelphia  to 
all  parts  of  the  country  with  minds  intent  on  adding 
new  beauty  to  their  homes.  They  had  discovered  to 
their  amazement  that  pleasing  articles  of  domestic  use 
were  not  much  more  costly  than  ugly  ones,  and  that 
tastefully  decorated  china  and  brightly  colored  curtains 
and  draperies  were  within  the  reach  of  even  a  very 
slender  purse.  The  enormous  benefit  derived  from  this 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  77 

widespread  growth  of  artistic  taste  cannot  be  over-esti 
mated,  and  it  was  all  the  greater  because  it  was  accom 
plished  not  by  legislative  enactment  but  through  the 
voluntary  efforts  of  each  individual  housekeeper.  If 
the  nation  had  been  commanded  by  Congress  to  beautify 
its  homes  it  would  have  resented  the  order  just  as  many 
who  never  touch  liquor  rebel  against  Prohibition. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  craze  for  household  decora 
tion  which  left  its  indelible  mark  on  the  nation  should 
have  thrown  into  eclipse  those  articles  of  a  simpler  and 
elder  age  which  are  now  so  freely  imitated  and  sold  at 
high  prices  as  "antiques";  and  still  less  to  be  wondered 
at  is  the  trail  of  meretricious  over-decoration  which  that 
craze  left  behind  it.  Fine  old  mantelpieces  were  hidden 
under  rickety  sets  of  shelves  called  "over-mantels";  rib 
bons  were  tied  around  chairs,  tables,  piano  legs  and  even 
coal  scuttles,  and  such  articles  of  textile  disfigurement  as 
"drapes"  and  "throws"  were  added  to  the  upholsterer's 
stock  in  trade.  I  am  afraid  that  this  riot  of  bad  taste  is 
better  remembered  now  than  the  direct  result  of  the  Cen 
tennial  but  the  influence  of  the  last  named  will  be  felt 
long  after  the  other  is  forgotten.  The  Columbian  Ex 
position  of  1893  gave  incontrovertible  proof  of  what 
has  been  accomplished  in  the  development  of  native  art 
in  seventeen  years. 

As  I  write  a  discussion  is  raging  in  regard  to  the 
chronological  accuracy  of  Mrs.  Wharton's  novel,  "The 
Age  of  Innocence,"  and  I  am  reminded  thereby  of  the 
period,  so  different  from  our  own,  with  which  it  deals. 
We  were  nearer  to  Paris  then  than  to  London,  so  far  as 
fashion  went,  for  the  Second  Empire  had  not  yet  lost 


78  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

its  glamour  and  it  was  not  unusual  to  see  men  attired 
in  evening  dress  at  afternoon  receptions.  The  dinner 
hour  was  earlier  then  and  afforded  less  time  for  a  change 
of  raiment.  Although  much  has  been  said  and  written 
of  the  freedom  enjoyed  by  young  women  of  the  present 
day,  they  had  more  freedom  then  in  one  respect  than  at 
present,  for  they  were  not  as  carefully  chaperoned  when 
their  young  admirers  paid  their  evening  calls.  I  well 
remember  my  surprise  when  I  was  told  that  afternoon 
calls  were  the  custom  in  London  and  was  further  in 
formed  that  this  was  intended  to  give  better  oppor 
tunity  to  young  peers  and  others  of  wealth  and  leisure  as 
the  younger  sons  were  many  of  them  at  work  at  that 
time. 

The  usual  mode  of  procedure  at  these  evening  visits 
was  about  as  follows :  On  arriving  the  caller  would  be 
ushered  into  a  faintly  lighted  drawing-room,  there  to 
wait  while  his  name  was  announced.  Presently  the  maid 
would  return  with  the  remark  that  Miss  Mamie  would  be 
down  directly  and  then  proceed  to  light  four  burners  in 
the  heavy  chandelier,  three  of  which  would  be  promptly 
extinguished  by  the  visitor.  It  always  seemed  to  me 
that  a  ring  at  the  front  door  served  also  as  a  dressing 
bell,  for  no  young  lady  ever  descended  in  less  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Her  invariable  formula  after  greet 
ing  her  visitor  was  to  "have  a  little  more  light  on  the 
subject,"  to  which  the  other  would  object  on  the  ground 
of  weak  eyes:  Then  the  two  would  seat  themselves  on 
a  slippery  sofa  for  intimate  communion.  Several  of 
these  girls  whom  I  came  to  know  quite  well  might  have 
been  orphans  for  all  I  knew,  for  I  never  saw  either  of 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  79 

their  parents.  There  was  one  daughter,  however,  whose 
mother  was  nearly  always  present  during  these  visits, 
a  gracious  charming  woman  whom  we  young  fellows 
liked  better  than  the  other,  and  another  member  of  the 
family  was  a  small  and  extremely  good  looking  and  at 
tractive  brother  whom  I  did  not  see  again  until  twenty 
years  later  when  in  my  journalistic  capacity  I  called  on 
him  in  Sing  Sing  prison.  He  was  as  handsome  as  ever 
and  the  striped  suit  that  he  wore  had  been  made  for  him 
of  fine  material  by  a  Fifth  Avenue  tailor.  Principal 
Keeper  Connaughton  told  me  that  he  was  serving  a  long 
term  for  the  crime  of  arson  and  that  during  this  time 
his  mother  had  never  been  once  to  see  him,  an  instance 
of  maternal  neglect  almost  unknown  in  the  annals  of 
the  prison.  This  episode  convinced  me  that  it  is  neces 
sary  sometimes  to  revise  early  estimates  of  feminine 
character. 

The  reception  given,  or  to  speak  more  truthfully, 
offered  to  the  Earl  of  Dunraven  during  the  middle 
Seventies  was  an  episode  that  aroused  much  comment  at 
the  time  and  was  not,  so  far  as  I  know,  referred  to  in 
the  press  when  the  Earl's  participation  in  the  yacht  race 
served  as  a  theme  for  so  many  nimble  pens.  An  am 
bitious  mother  whose  acquaintance  Lord  Dunraven  had 
made,  invited  him  quite  informally  to  visit  her  and  her 
daughter  on  a  certain  day,  to  which  proposition  he 
courteously  agreed,  whereupon  they  sent  out  engraved 
cards  to  a  numerous  company  bidding  them  "meet  the 
Earl  of  Dunraven/'  According  to  my  memory  every 
body,  including  myself,  bidden  to  this  ceremony  arrived 
except  the  guest  of  honor  who,  learning  of  this  unex- 


80  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

pected  turn  of  affairs,  was  seized  with  an  opportune  ill 
ness.  I  believe  I  am  one  of  the  few  survivors  of  this 
chilly  function. 

I  have  now  arrived  at  an  experience  that  I  had  after 
leaving  the  Gazette  which,  although  unpleasant  at  the 
time,  proved  so  valuable  to  me  that  I  am  able  to  record 
it  without  evincing  a  particle  of  the  bitter  animosity  that 
I  once  felt  toward  him  at  whose  hand  I  suffered.  In 
fact  I  shall  not  mention  his  name  and  I  would  not  relate 
this  little  story  were  it  not  for  the  lesson  that  it  conveys. 

My  new  employer  had  at  one  time  shown  himself  to 
be  my  friend  and  he  was  a  man  of  fine  literary  taste  and 
lofty  ideals.  But  since  my  former  intimacy  with  him 
he  had  married  a  woman  of  far  nobler  character  than 
his  own  and  was  now  supported  by  her  or  his  mother- 
in-law  or  both,  I  never  quite  knew  which.  He  was 
indeed  an  idealist,  the  first  of  his  kind  I  ever  knew  and 
of  a  type  all  too  common  to-day.  Of  the  many  con 
versations  that  we  had  this  one  will  serve  as  a  sample 
of  them  all. 

On  the  second  floor  of  his  mother-in-law's  house  that 
lady  had  set  apart  for  his  special  use  a  fine  study,  and 
here  we  sat  one  evening  until  far  into  the  night  while  he 
talked  and  I  listened  to  what  impressed  me  as  about 
the  finest  flood  of  exalted  sentiment  that  had  ever  reached 
my  ears. 

My  friend  had  a  weakness  for  strong  drink,  indulgence 
in  which  tended  to  make  him  a  sort  of  family  nuisance. 
He  had  not  sufficient  strength  of  character  to  go  on  a 
prolonged  toot  and  great  care  was  taken  to  keep  tempta 
tion  away  from  him.  On  this  occasion  I  remember  that 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  81 

he  erected  on  the  table  a  little  cave  of  books  with  a 
volume  of  The  History  of  England  as  a  door,  and  within 
this  cave  stood  a  flask  of  whiskey  and  a  glass — only 
one  glass,  for  he  ran  true  to  form.  Ever  and  anon  as  he 
talked  he  would  go  to  the  door  and  listen  and  then 
return  with  furtive  step,  take  down  The  History  of  Eng 
land,  pour  himself  out  a  drink  and  then  close  up  the 
cave  again. 

"I  tell  you,  Ford/'  he  said  in  the  earnest  tones  that 
always  carried  conviction  with  me  until  I  came  to  know 
him  better,  "this  world  is  entering  upon  a  new  stage 
in  which  love  of  humanity  is  going  to  play  a  stronger 
part  than  ever  before.  We  are  all  comrades  here  and 
our  duty  is  to  help  one  another.  We  see  men  all  around 
us  getting  rich  by  usury,  taking  toll  of  the  real  toiler. 
A  man  has  no  right  to  take  more  than  six  per  cent  upon 
his  invested  capital." 

"But,"  said  I,  as  he  paused  to  replenish  the  single 
glass,  "suppose  that  his  investment  should  yield  him  ten 
per  cent,  what  should  he  do  then?" 

"Give  four  per  cent  to  the  poor!"  exclaimed  the  ideal 
ist  as  he  replaced  The  History  of  England. 

Never  in  my  life  had  I  listened  to  such  noble  senti 
ments  and  I  was  still  brooding  over  what  I  had  heard 
when  he  changed  the  conversation  by  inquiring  if  the 
foreman  had  received  a  certain  amount  of  back  wages 
that  had  been  due  him  for  some  time.  I  answered  that 
he  had  not,  as  the  profits  of  the  enterprise  had  not  yet 
permitted  it. 

"Don't  give  it  to  him  then.  Perhaps  he'll  forget  all 
about  it.  As  soon  as  you  get  a  little  ahead,  let  me  have 


82  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

it.     He'd  probably  spend  it  in  drink  if  you  were  to  giv*, 
it  to  him." 

To  this  day  I  never  read  or  hear  any  of  the  out 
pourings  of  idealism  without  remembering  the  scene  in 
the  beautiful  library  furnished  by  the  mother-in-law, 
listening  once  more  to  the  beautiful  line  of  conversation 
and  seeing,  with  a  vision  as  clear  as  that  of  yesterday, 
the  cave  of  books,  the  flask  and  the  single  glass.  Even 
the  sight  of  a  History  of  England  is  enough  to  recall 
it  all,  and  if  anyone  were  to  call  me  "comrade,"  I  would 
button  up  my  pockets. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FOR  reasons  better  understood  by  persons  of  advanced 
years  than  by  the  younger  generation,  the  ninth 
decade  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  has  of  late  enjoyed 
importance  as  a  distinct  and  fruitful  historical  period, 
referred  to  by  British  as  well  as  American  writers  as 
"the  Eighties."  This  is  specially  applicable  to  New 
York,  with  whose  annals  these  memoirs  have  to  deal. 
At  the  beginning  of  this  decade  the  town  was  rapidly 
recovering  from  the  depression  of  previous  years  and 
renewing  its  activities  under  many  new  conditions.  The 
telephone,  which  had  been  sneered  at  as  a  fraud  when 
it  was  exhibited  in  Chickering  Hall,  was  coming  into 
general  use,  and  the  newly  invented  typewriter  was  open 
ing  to  women  a  wide  field  of  employment  and  sending 
swarms  of  attractive  typists  into  the  financial  district 
where  a  few  years  previous  the  appearance  of  a  pretty 
young  girl  had  caused  a  general  twisting  of  necks  and 
admiring  glances.  The  "brownstone  age"  had  already 
passed,  and  the  profession  of  architecture  was  assuming 
new  importance  as  the  houses  hastily  run  up  by  specu 
lators  during  the  Civil  War  were  replaced  by  better  struc 
tures.  Various  athletic  sports  were  receiving  fresh  im 
petus  at  the  hands  of  James  Gordon  Bennett  and  other 
men  of  means  and  influence,  and  sparring  matches  were 
fast  gaining  in  popularity. 

83 


84  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

I  recall  a  rather  sparsely  attended  glove  contest  where 
I  found  myself  seated  next  to  an  elderly  man  whose  con 
versation  proved  him  a  keen  lover  of  the  manly  art. 
"Young  man,"  he  said  to  me  in  earnest  tones,  "there  is 
a  boxer  billed  to  appear  to-night  who  in  my  opinion  is 
going  to  become  the  greatest  fighter  of  his  time.  And 
when  I  tell  you  that  I've  been  attending  bare-knuckle 
prize  fights  as  well  as  these  modern  glove  contests  all 
my  life,  and  that  I  was  one  of  the  very  few  men  who 
crossed  the  ocean  in  1860  to  see  the  Heenan-Sayres  fight, 
you'll  perhaps  believe  that  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  There  he  comes  now!"  he  added  as  a  tall,  well- 
built  young  man  climbed  upon  the  stage.  "He's  billed  to 
fight  an  unknown  and  I  want  you  to  take  a  good  look 
at  his  back,  his  loins  and  his  arms  and  watch  him  when 
he  spars." 

The  "unknown"  had  evidently  noted  these  evidences 
of  strength  and  fistic  skill,  for  a  moment  later  the  master 
of  ceremonies  announced  that  he  "h'ain't  showed  up 
yet/'  and  I  missed  my  first  chance  of  seeing  John  L. 
Sullivan  spar.  A  few  months  later  he  fought  and 
whipped  Paddy  Ryan. 

Bicycling  was  another  sport  that  may  be  said  to  have 
begun  with  the  Eighties,  for  it  was  then  that  the  now 
obsolete  high  bicycle  first  came  into  use,  the  heavy  wooden 
affair  of  the  late  Sixties  and  early  Seventies  having  long 
since  disappeared.  C.  K.  Munroe,  now  a  popular  writer 
of  boys'  books,  and  at  that  time  a  reporter  on  The  Sun, 
did  more  to  stimulate  interest  in  this  sport  than  anyone 
of  his  time,  and  at  his  instance  I  joined  the  earliest  of 
the  New  York  clubs  and  the  League  of  American  Wheel- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  85 

men,  both  of  which  Munroe  organized,  beside  enriching 
the  language  with  the  word  " wheelman." 

Theatrical  affairs,  which  had  suffered  greatly  from  ths 
general  financial  depression  and  also  from  the  terror 
inspired  by  the  disastrous  Brooklyn  Theatre  fire,  entered 
upon  a  new  lease  of  life  soon  after  the  dawn  of  the 
Eighties,  and  my  debut  on  the  Broadway  turf  as  a  writer 
of  what  I  thought  was  dramatic  criticism  was  happily 
coincident  with  that  revival.  Very  rashly  I  had  acquired 
an  interest  in  a  moribund  Sunday  paper,  attracted  more 
by  its  past  history  than  by  its  future  prospects.  Edgar 
Poe  had  written  for  it,  Augustin  Daly  had  been  its 
office  boy,  and  many  a  famous  name  figured  among  its 
list  of  dead  and  gone  contributors.  Had  my  foresight 
been  equal  to  my  hindsight  I  would  have  realized  that  the 
Sunday  editions  of  the  dailies  were  bound  to  crowd  out 
the  old-fashioned  weeklies,  and  that  was  what  eventually 
happened.  But  although  the  investment  proved  a  losing 
one  it  yielded  me  a  practical  experience  in  journalism — 
one  that  taught  me  how  many  things  should  not  be  done. 
It  also  gave  me  abundant  opportunity  for  the  study  of 
the  stage  and  an  acquaintance  with  players,  privileges 
prized  by  callow  youth  and  not  always  despised  by 
senile  age. 

At  that  time  the  playhouses  were  scattered  along 
Broadway  below  Fourteenth  Street,  and  the  Academy 
of  Music  was,  on  opera  nights,  the  centre  of  metro 
politan  fashion,  as  it  had  been  since  Mario  and  Grisi  sang 
there  in  the  Fifties. 

I  came  upon  the  turf  at  a  most  opportune  moment — 
the  fall  of  1879,  to  be  exact — for  the  new  decade  was 


86  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

destined  to  prove  one  of  great  theatrical  interest  The 
American  dramatist,  previously  a  negligible  quantity  in 
the  theatre,  was  just  coming  into  view ;  management  was 
passing  from  the  want-scene  to  the  box-office ;  the  specu 
lator  in  famous  foreign  attractions  was  showing  himself 
on  the  near  horizon  and  the  first  waves  of  a  great  flood 
of  light  opera  were  beating  on  our  shores.  The  public 
was  ready  to  welcome  these  new  conditions.  Shake 
speare  went  into  temporary  eclipse,  and  the  old  English 
comedies  that  had  kept  Wallack's  Theatre  in  the  front 
rank  so  many  years  were  losing  their  hold  and  Drury 
Lane  melodrama  was  coming  to  take  their  place  on  a 
stage  dedicated  to  the  service  of  England's  and  Ireland's 
best  dramatic  literature. 

The  passing  of  the  Wallack  Stock  Company  with  its 
many  traditions  was  deeply  regretted  by  veteran  players 
arid  conservative  play-goers — both  of  which  elements  may 
be  relied  on  to  deplore  any  change  that  confirms  their 
opinion  that  the  stage  is  "going  to  the  dogs."  Never 
theless  it  was  a  harbinger  of  new  and  better  conditions 
for  the  native  drama,  for  Wallack  had  been  bound  in 
a  life-long  servitude  to  everything  British.  His  prin 
cipal  actors  were  of  London  reputation  and  his  plays 
were  all  of  British  or  Irish  authorship,  from  Goldsmith 
and  Sheridan  to  Tom  Robertson  and  Boucicault.  His 
only  experience  with  an  American  dramatist  that  I  can 
recall  was  when  he  produced  Twins  by  Nym  Crinkle 
and  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  author  was  a 
critic  of  whom  he  stood  in  wholesome  awe.  He  read 
the  manuscript  of  Shenandoah  and  offered  to  produce 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  87 

it  if  Bronson  Howard  would  change  its  locale  to  the 
Crimea. 

Not  until  Steele  Mackaye  entered  the  field  of  man 
agement  did  capital  begin  to  take  heart.  Steele  Mackaye, 
to  whom  the  town  owed  the  erection  of  the  Madison 
Square  Theatre  on  the  site  of  the  house  once  occupied 
by  Augustin  Daly,  was  an  actor,  a  playwright  and  above 
all  a  promoter  of  great  ability.  The  opening  of  that 
theatre  did  much  to  turn  the  tide  of  depression.  At 
a  time  when  capital  regarded  all  theatrical  investment 
with  suspicion,  if  not  actual  aversion,  Mackaye  con 
ceived  a  brilliant  scheme  and  hastened  to  put  it  into 
execution.  He  smote  the  dry  rock  of  religious  journal 
ism  and  a  stream  of  revenue  gushed  forth.  At  that 
time  the  Mallory  brothers  were  peacefully  conducting 
their  paper,  The  Churchman,  and  to  them  appeared 
Mackaye,  who  was  of  imposing  appearance  and  pos 
sessed  of  a  sonorous  voice  which  he  could  use  in  a  most 
convincing  manner  both  on  and  off  the  stage.  He  pro 
ceeded  to  lay  pipes  for  the  proposition  he  had  in  mind 
by  remarking  that  in  his  opinion  the  drinking  habit  was 
greatly  fostered  by  the  theatre,  which  allowed  time  be 
tween  the  acts  for  patrons  to  seek  the  nearest  bar-room. 
To  this  the  Mallorys  of  course  assented,  as  became  the 
proorietors  of  a  religious  paper.  Then  Mackaye  went 
on  to  say  that  he  had  perfected  a  device  which  would 
effectually  prevent  all  drinking  between  the  acts  and 
proceeded  to  describe  his  double  stage,  a  sort  of  dumb 
waiter  which  could  be  raised  or  lowered  at  will  so  that 
one  scene  could  be  set  while  that  above  or  below  it  was 


88  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

in  use.  By  this  means  the  interval  between  the  acts  could 
be  reduced  if  necessary  to  less  than  a  minute  and  would 
unquestionably  attract  a  large  number  of  persons  by  rea 
son  of  curiosity. 

Greatly  impressed  by  the  novelty  and  value  of  this 
invention  the  Mallorys,  after  due  deliberation,  agreed  to 
build  the  theatre  and  install  Mr.  Mackaye  as  its  manager. 
It  opened  with  his  own  Hazel  Kirke  f  an  adaptation  of 
an  English  drama  called  The  Green  Lanes  of  England, 
and  it  had  a  tremendously  long  run.  Hazel  Kirke  was 
an  ideal  matinee  attraction,  furnishing  to  every  woman 
who  came  equipped  with  three  handkerchiefs  and  a  box 
of  caramels,  a  splendid  afternoon's  cry.  The  Mallorys 
then  went  into  more  extensive  theatrical  operations. 
Mackaye  was  succeeded  by  William  Gillette,  and  the 
Frohmans  were  added  to  his  staff,  Dan  Frohman  as  the 
business  manager  and  his  brothers  in  other  capacities. 

The  productions  of  the  Mallorys  were  of  a  gentle 
nature  and  marked  by  invariable  good  taste.  They 
brought  David  Belasco  from  San  Francisco  to  manage 
their  stage  and  produced  his  play  May  Blossom.  Bron- 
son  Howard,  H.  C.  De  Mille,  who  later  collaborated 
with  Belasco,  Mrs.  Hodgson  Burnett  and  H.  H.  Boyesen 
were  among  the  playwrights  whom  they  favored. 

It  was  in  this  theatre  that  Effie  Ellsler,  who  is  still 
playing,  first  made  herself  known  to  New  York  audiences 
through  her  performance  in  the  title  role  in  Hazel  Kirke, 
and  it  was  here,  too,  that  Annie  Russell  gained  her 
earliest  renown  as  the  heroine  of  Esmeralda.  Other 
members  of  the  Madison  Square  Company  were  Henry 
Miller,  Viola  Allen  and  Jeffreys  Lewis.  Rose  Coghlan 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  89 

was  engaged  for  a  contemplated  revival  of  Masks  and 
Faces  which  was  abandoned  because  of  the  long  run  of 
Hazel  Kirke. 

One  of  the  first  actors  signed  by  Mackaye,  who  had 
a  great  respect  for  cherished  theatrical  superstitions  and 
tradition,  was  Welsh  Edwards,  who  enjoyed  a  high  repu 
tation  in  the  profession  as  a  mascot,  meaning  a  person 
who  could  bring  good  luck  to  any  enterprise  with  which 
he  was  connected.  He  had  served  in  that  capacity  in 
the  Harrigan  and  Hart  Company,  and  for  a  long  while 
he  drew  a  salary  from  the  Mallorys  without  ever  appear 
ing  on  their  stage.  When  Frank  B.  Murtha  induced 
Lester  Wallack  to  appear  for  a  week  at  his  Windsor 
Theatre  on  the  Bowery,  he  made  haste  to  secure  Welsh 
Edwards  and  it  is  recorded  that  when  Wallack  first 
encountered  him  at  rehearsal  and  noted  his  artistic 
methods  he  exclaimed:  "Good  Gawd,  is  that  an  actor?" 

"No,"  replied  Murtha.  "He's  something  better  than 
an  actor.  He's  a  mascot  and  I  wouldn't  risk  bringing 
you  down  here  to  the  Bowery  unless  I  had  him  on  my 
salary  list." 

Blood  ran  thicker  than  business  in  the  veins  of  the 
theatrical  profession  in  those  days  and  many  of  the 
traveling  companies  were  family  affairs.  Edwin  Booth 
was  at  one  time  under  the  management  of  his  father- 
in-law,  McVicker,  with  the  latter's  son,  my  former 
schoolmate,  as  business  manager  and  Horace's  wife, 
Affie  Weaver,  as  leading  lady.  Mr.  Booth's  brother, 
Junius  Brutus  Booth,  and  the  latter's  wife,  Agnes  Booth, 
one  of  the  very  best  actresses  who  has  ever  graced  our 
stage,  were  also  members  of  the  supporting  company. 


90  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Mary  Anderson  played  under  the  management  of  her 
step-father,  Dr.  Griffin,  and  Fay  Templeton,  who  later 
became  a  favorite  New  York  entertainer,  roamed  the 
country  under  her  father's  management,  playing  second 
to  her  mother,  the  star.  Among  my  earliest  professional 
friends  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oliver  Doud  Byron,  who 
played  Across  the  Continent  aided  by  two  or  three  of 
their  relations.  I  remember  now  with  what  pleasure  I 
saw  them  act — there  were  some  who  considered  Mrs. 
Byron  superior  to  her  sister,  Ada  Rehan — and  with  what 
greater  pleasure  I  visited  them  in  their  Long  Branch 
home.  Perhaps  my  frequent  appearances  before  their 
door  became  tiresome  to  them  but  they  left  agreeable 
memories  with  me  and  that  is  something  that  always 
counts  with  players  in  their  capacity  as  hosts. 

The  profession  was  nearer  and  dearer  to  the  popular 
heart  then  than  it  is  now,  partly  because  the  illusion  of 
the  footlights  was  more  carefully  retained,  but  chiefly 
because  the  personality  of  the  players  entered  so  largely 
into  the  matter.  Once  established  as  a  favorite,  an  actor 
could  use  the  same  play  an  indefinite  number  of  years. 
Maggie  Mitchell  in  Fanchon,  Joseph  Jefferson  in  Rip 
Van  Winkle,  and  Robson  and  Crane  in  The  Henrietta, 
could  always  command  audiences.  Lotta,  aptly  char 
acterized  by  John  Brougham  as  "the  dramatic  cocktail," 
could  appear  in  almost  anything  provided  she  sang  "The 
Sweet  Bye  and  Bye,"  a  simple  ballad  that  never  failed 
to  reach  the  hearts  of  her  audience. 

The  three  great  stock  companies  of  New  York  were 
Wallack's,  the  Union  Square  and  Daly's,  which  last- 
named  opened  in  1879,  in  the  playhouse  that  then  took 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  91 

his  name.  Wallack's  was  devoted  to  the  British  drama 
and  the  Union  Square  to  that  of  France,  under  the  direc 
tion  of  A.  M.  Palmer,  who  had  come  from  the  Mercan 
tile  Library  and  knew  much  of  the  literary  side  of  the 
stage  but  had  never  been  much  of  a  theatre-goer.  Chance 
threw  in  his  way  an  Austrian  named  A.  R.  Cazauran,  who 
had  been  the  dramatic  critic  of  the  Brooklyn  Eagle  and 
had  an  extraordinary  flair  for  the  drama.  It  was  he 
who  made  the  adaptations  from  the  French  and  staged 
them.  The  Two  Orphans,  A  Celebrated  Case,  and  For 
bidden  Fruit  were  among  his  productions.  But  Mr. 
Palmer  rendered  a  still  greater  service  to  the  American 
stage  by  giving  two  plays  which  may  be  said  to  have 
inaugurated  the  modern  American  drama.  One  of  these 
was  My  Partner  by  Bartley  Campbell,  and  the  other  was 
The  Banker's  Daughter  by  Bronson  Howard.  The  last- 
named  had  been  produced  in  other  cities  and  in  different 
forms  but  it  was  not  until  Cazauran  employed  his  adroit 
hand  in  its  reconstruction  that  it  became  a  remarkable 
success  and  paved  the  way  for  Mr.  Howard's  subsequent 
career  as  the  leading  American  dramatist  of  his  day. 

Up  to  this  time  the  American  dramatist  had  not  been 
regarded  seriously.  His  chief  occupation  was  in  writing 
vehicles  calculated  to  display  the  tricks  or  talents  of  some 
ambitious  player  by  artfully  concealing  that  player's 
poverty  of  resource.  He  followed  the  managers  with  im 
portunities  on  his  lips,  even  as  the  managers  follow 
him  to-day,  and  the  two  dramas  that  I  have  named  liter 
ally  set  him  on  his  feet. 

The  history  of  The  Two  Orphans  has  an  amazing 
sound  when  we  consider  the  eagerness  with  which 


92  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Parisian  successes  are  watched  by  American  managers 
and  their  agents,  to  say  nothing  of  our  minor  dramatists. 
The  rights  for  this  play  were  acquired  by  Hart  Jackson, 
an  American  manager,  when  it  was  first  given  in  Paris, 
and  the  manuscript  remained  in  his  desk  for  some  months, 
despite  its  enormous  Parisian  success.  Finally  Mr. 
Palmer  secured  it  by  payment  of  the  sum  originally  ad 
vanced,  and  when  it  was  put  in  rehearsal  all  the  actors 
in  the  company  were  sorry  for  Kate  Claxton,  because  she 
had  the  smallest  of  all  the  parts,  for  then,  as  now,  players 
were  prone  to  estimate  parts  by  weight  or  length  rather 
than  by  what  they  offered  in  the  way  of  dramatic  oppor 
tunities.  Yet  the  blind  orphan  became  the  part  of  the 
piece  and  Miss  Claxton  starred  in  it  for  many  seasons. 

First  nights  were  occasions  that  I  greatly  enjoyed 
and  I  may  add  that  that  is  one  of  the  few  pleasures  that 
remain  with  me  to  the  present  day,  for  my  interest  in 
new  productions  is  almost  as  keen  as  ever.  Managers 
were  hospitable  then ;  every  office  contained  its  sideboard, 
whose  contents  were  at  the  service  of  critics  while  writ 
ing  their  notices,  and  on  first  nights  there  was  not  in 
frequently  a  cold  supper  with  many  bottles  of  cham 
pagne.  It  is  many  a  long  year  since  I  have  seen  any 
thing  of  the  like  in  a  New  York  playhouse. 

When  Augustin  Daly  opened  his  theatre  in  1879  he 
had  had  much  experience,  both  in  management  and  in 
play-writing.  Beginning  his  career  as  dramatic  critic 
on  a  weekly  paper  he  had  adapted  Leah  the  Forsaken 
for  Miss  Kate  Bateman  and  written  Under  the  Gaslight, 
a  local  melodrama  which  I  witnessed  as  a  boy  with  thrills 
running  up  and  down  my  spine.  He  entered  upon  his 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  93 

new  venture  with  three  young  women  on  whose  talents 
he  set  a  high  value.    These  were  Miss  Ada  Rehan,  Miss 
Catharine  Lewis  and  Miss  Helen  Blythe,  and  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  he  regarded  the  last-named  as  the  most 
promising  of   the  trio.      Miss   Blythe   and  Miss  Lewis 
quarreled  with  their  manager,  but  Miss  Rehan  remained 
with  him  and  accepted  his  teachings  with  results  that 
long    since    spoke    for    themselves.      Catharine    Lewis 
became  the  star  of  the  musical  productions  that  Mr. 
Daly  then  favored  and  was  a  singularly  attractive  and 
vivacious  artist.     The  last  time  I  saw  her  was  in  the 
Town  Hall  at  Sag  Harbor,  Long  Island,  impersonating 
with  but  little  of  her  old  fire  a  role  that  Mr.  Daly  had 
taught  her.     John  Hare  once  told  me  that  Miss  Rehan 
was  one  of  the  five  great  actresses  of  the  world,  the 
others  being  Bernhardt,  Duse,  Ellen  Terry  and  Rejane. 
Mr.  Daly's  dramatic  company  was  not  then  the  organiza 
tion  that  it  became  in  later  years.     Mrs.  Gilbert  and 
James  Lewis  and  John  Drew  were  playing  elsewhere,  the 
two  first-named  at  the  Park  Theatre,  where  Henry  E. 
Abbey  was  trying  to  establish  a  stock  company.     It  was 
at  the  Park  that  I  saw  Agnes  Booth  in  her  incompar 
able  performance  of  Gilbert's  Engaged,  and  it  was  here 
also  that  that  admirable  actor,  W.  J.  Ferguson,  whom  it 
always  delights  me  to  see,  gained  his  first  public  recog 
nition  as  the  tramp  in  Bartley  Campbell's  Fairfax. 

Mr.  Daly  had  managed  other  theatres  in  New  York 
before  he  established  himself  in  what  was  once  Wood's 
Museum  and  had  developed  several  fine  players,  among 
them  Clara  Morris,  Agnes  Ethel  and  Fanny  Davenport. 
As  the  French  and  the  British  drama  had  already  been 


94  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

exploited  in  other  playhouses  he  now  turned  his  atten 
tion  to  the  German  stage  from  which  he  drew  many 
comic  operas  and  a  number  of  comedies  which  he 
adapted  with  much  skill  to  American  life.  The  Royal 
Middy,  Olivette,  and  other  light  musical  pieces,  proved 
very  successful  and  then  he  began  to  build  up  his 
dramatic  stock  company,  adding  to  it  Mrs.  Gilbert,  Mr. 
Lewis,  Mr.  Leclerc  and  John  Drew,  thus  forming  what 
was  probably  the  best  comedy  stock  company  that  New 
York  has  ever  seen.  His  aim  was  to  present  on  his 
stage  well-bred  society  in  such  a  manner  that  it  could  not 
be  mistaken  for  anything  else  and  to  aid  this  illusion 
he  engaged  a  number  of  young  girls  of  good  birth  and 
breeding  to  appear  in  minor  parts,  hoping  also  to  find 
among  them  some  of  the  stuff  of  which  players  are 
made.  In  later  years  one  of  these  young  women  pub 
lished  The  Diary  of  a  Daly  Debutante,  in  which  her  ex 
periences  under  Mr.  Daly's  management  are  delightfully 
portrayed. 

Ada  Rehan,  who  had  already  appeared  in  New  York 
in  a  version  of  L'Assomoir,  was  the  leading  lady,  and 
Mr.  Daly  devoted  his  best  talents  and  energies  to  making 
her  the  great  artist  that  she  eventually  became.  He  did 
much  also  for  Mr.  Drew  and  the  team  work  of  these  two 
players  was  delightful  to  watch.  Mr.  Drew  is  in  my 
opinion  the  best  light  comedian  on  our  stage  and  he 
owes  much  to  the  training  that  he  received  at  Mr.  Daly's 
hands.  Old  time  play-goers  have  most  agreeable 
memories  of  The  Passing  Regiment,  Seven-twenty-eight, 
The  Railroad  of  Love,  and  other  light  comedies  as  well 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  95 

as  of  the  Shakesperian  plays  that  were  given  in  later 
years. 

Mr.  Daly  caught  the  rising  tide  of  comic  opera  with 
much  success.  It  was  a  period  singularly  rich  in  musical 
attractions  and  beside  those  that  I  have  mentioned  the 
public  was  treated  by  other  managers  to  the  works  of 
half  a  score  of  composers,  chiefly  Teutonic,  of  great 
merit.  One  of  the  most  popular  of  these  operas  was 
The  Mascot,  which  had  a  long  run  at  the  Bijou,  with 
Harry  Brown  as  Prince  Lorenzo  and  Lillie  West,  now 
the  Amy  Leslie  of  the  Chicago  Daily  News,  as  Fiam- 
metta.  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  had  been  made  known  to 
us  through  Pinafore,  and  I  well  remember  attending  the 
dress  rehearsal  and  then  the  first  night  of  Patience. 
The  rehearsal  was  witnessed  by  an  audience  made  up 
entirely  of  such  invited  guests  as  managers,  players, 
singers,  critics  and  other  supposed  experts  and  yet  the 
first  act  went  without  a  laugh  and  at  the  close  of  the 
performance  opinion  was  divided  as  to  the  prospects  of 
the  piece.  But  nothing  shook  the  faith  of  its  manager, 
William  Henderson,  the  father  of  W.  J.  Henderson,  the 
musical  critic,  and  his  optimism  was  fully  justified  the 
following  evening  when  the  same  performance  was  given 
before  an  enthusiastic  audience  that  had  paid  for  their 
seats. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  my  younger  days  the  minstrels  furnished  us  with 
most  of  our  jokes  and  songs,  the  latter  being  largely 
of  a  sentimental  or  melancholy  nature.  The  San  Fran 
cisco  Minstrels  was  the  leading  home  of  this  kind  of 
entertainment  and  Messrs.  Birch,  Wambold,  Backus  and 
Bernard  were  its  chief  exponents.  The  Civil  War  gave 
minstrelsy  its  death-blow  but  it  staggered  on  for  many 
years  after  and  was  kept  alive  for  a  short  time  by  fancy 
clothes  and  other  innovations.  Haverly  organized  a 
company  with  the  motto,  "40,  count  'em,  40,"  and  took 
this  huge  organization  to  London.  My  cousin,  Sim  Ford, 
witnessed  the  entertainment  there  and  thus  commented 
on  the  density  of  the  audience.  "A  good  joke  was  re 
ceived  almost  with  falling  tears  and  then  in  bitter  despair 
the  end  man  began  to  sing,  'Kiss  me  o'er  my  mother's 
grave,'  in  the  midst  of  which  roars  of  laughter  greeted 
him.  The  audience  had  just  caught  on  to  the  point  of 
the  joke." 

The  town  will  always  support  one  humorous  entertain 
ment  that  is  somewhat  different  from  the  regular  theat 
rical  amusements  and  Harrigan  and  Hart  took  the  place 
of  minstrelsy  during  the  latter's  failing  years.  It  was 
late  in  the  Seventies  that  this  famous  team,  having  fin 
ished  their  apprenticeship  in  variety,  entered  upon  their 
notable  career  in  the  Theatre  Comique  directly  opposite 

96 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  97 

the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel.  They  had  not  then  received  any 
critical  consideration,  nor  gained  much  public  recogni 
tion  outside  of  the  lower  wards.  Their  work  fascinated 
me  from  the  first  and  I  sought  their  acquaintance  and 
spent  more  than  one  evening  in  the  room  in  which  the 
two  partners  dressed,  thus  gaining  material  for  what  I 
believe  were  the  first  newspaper  articles  of  any  length 
-ever  printed  about  them. 

Their  entertainment  is  still  an  unforgettable  memory 
in  the  minds  of  all  old-time  New  Yorkers.  Their 
sketches  were  humorous  pictures  of  those  phases  of  local 
life  that  they  all  understood  so  well  and  their  company 
was  made  up  for  the  most  part  of  variety  teams,  such 
as  Wild  and  Gray,  Goss  and  Fox  and  Tiernan  and 
Cronin,  together  with  entertainers  like  Annie  Yeamans, 
Annie  Mack  and  Harry  Fisher,  all  of  whom  became 
thoroughly  identified  in  the  popular  mind  with  the  roles 
that  they  assumed.  Nearly  all  of  these  performers  are 
dead ;  but  a  few  years  ago  I  passed  a  very  pleasant  hour 
with  Mrs.  Ed.  Merritt  (Annie  Mack  of  other  times)  in 
her  comfortable  home  far  uptown,  talking  over  the  days 
long  gone  by.  Harrigan  was  the  dramatist  and  stage 
manager  of  the  company  but  Tony  Hart  was  the  actor 
and  a  more  versatile  and  charming  one  I  have  seldom 
seen  in  all  my  years  of  play-going.  Among  his  parts 
that  I  recall  were  Mrs.  Allup,  a  colored  woman ;  Tommy 
Mulligan,  the  son  of  the  Irish  tenement-house  owner; 
a  rosy,  white-capped  old  Irishwoman  in  Squatter 
Sovereignty,  and  a  pathetic  foolish  boy  in  a  play  of 
Ireland  called  The  Blackbird.  All  their  plays  were  mar 
vels  in  the  way  of  local  detail  and  rich  in  homely  wit. 


98  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

I  remember  one  scene  in  which  the  members  of  the  Board 
of  Aldermen  visited  Dan  Mulligan's  house  and  were  so 
well  entertained  that  they  all  fell  asleep  in  the  dining- 
room. 

"Whatever  will  I  do?"  demanded  Mrs.  Mulligan  of 
her  husband.  "The  aldermen  are  all  sound  asleep.  Will 
I  wake  them?" 

"Lave  thim  be,"  said  Mulligan.  "While  they  sleep  the 
city's  safe." 

Of  late  years  there  has  arisen  a  school  of  stage  decora 
tion  which  utterly  ignores  illusion  and  is  therefore  highly 
praised  by  those  verbose  persons  who  known  nothing 
about  the  theatre.  A  long  white  screen  with  a  vase 
painted  on  one  end  of  it  and  the  figure  of  a  goat  on  the 
other  seems  to  the  disciples  of  this  school  to  afford  an 
admirable  background  for  Hamlet's  soliloquy.  When 
I  hear  efforts  of  this  sort  extolled  in  support  of  the 
theory  that  the  action  of  the  play  and  the  scenery  may 
be  divorced  to  advantage,  I  think  of  the  magnificent 
scenery  with  which  Edwin  Booth  fitted  out  his  own 
theatre  in  the  late  Sixties ;  and  I  recall  also,  the  less  pre 
tentious  but  equally  effective  methods  by  which  Ed.  Har- 
rigan  and  Robert  Cutler  supplemented  theatric  illusion. 
One  scene  in  The  Mulligan  Guard  Picnic  still  lives  in  my 
memory.  It  was,  to  use  a  theatrical  term,  "played  in 
one,"  that  is  to  say  in  a  very  narrow  space  at  the  very 
front  of  the  tiny  stage  set  to  represent  a  dock  to  which 
was  moored  the  steamboat  on  which  the  revelers  were 
about  to  depart  on  their  picnic.  The  members  of  the 
company  filed  by  the  ticket-taker  in  rapid  succession  and 
all  went  on  board,  with  the  exception  of  Johnny  Wild 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  99 

who  was  turned  back  for  the  want  of  a  ticket.  It  was 
in  this  play  that  he  appeared  without  his  usua1  burnt 
cork  makeup,  as  "Lemons  the  Bum/'  and  he  was  never 
seen  in  better  form.  The  company,  having  embarked, 
the  hawser  was  cast  off  and  the  boat,  or  all  that  could 
be  seen  of  it,  began  to  move  and  then  Wild  came  tear 
ing  down  the  dock  and  leaped  aboard.  What  made  this 
scene  effective  was  the  skill  with  which  so  much  was 
left  to  the  imagination.  Although  only  the  gunwale  of 
the  boat  and  the  hawser  attached  to  a  post  on  the  dock 
were  visible,  one  felt  that  a  real  steamboat  was  there; 
nor  did  this  illusion  vanish  when  it  began  to  move  off 
into  midstream. 

Harrigan's  last  highly  successful  production  was 
Rcilly  and  the  Four  Hundred,  given  in  1890,  at  the 
theatre  which  then  bore  his  name  and  is  now  known 
as  the  Garrick.  This  play  served  to  introduce  to  the 
public  a  character  entirely  new  to  our  stage  called  The 
Tough  Girl,  played  by  Miss  Ada  Lewis,  who  literally 
awoke  the  next  morning  to  find  herself  famous.  Miss 
Lewis  was  then  very  young  and  very  pretty  but  very 
early  in  the  game  she  realized  that  beauty  quickly  fades 
and  she  determined  to  devote  herself  to  character  parts, 
in  which  line  of  endeavor  she  has  been  extremely  suc 
cessful  and,  although  not  a  star,  ranks  high  in  popular 
favor. 

"Keep  the  money  in  the  family,"  was  the  motto  that 
might  well  have  been  displayed  in  the  lobby  of  the  Co- 
mique,  and  this,  combined  with  the  channish  Irish  sense, 
served  to  put  relatives  of  both  partners  on  the  payroll. 
Dave  Braham,  the  composer,  was  Harrigan's  father- 


100  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

in-law;  Hart's  brother,  Johnny  Cannon,  was  manager, 
and  Harrigan's  father  had  charge  of  the  box-office.  The 
elder  Harrigan  was  a  taciturn  Celt  of  dour  mien  whose 
native  humor  found  expression  in  the  apt  phrases  with 
which  he  replied  to  questions  that  he  deemed  superfluous. 

"Have  you  got  any  seats?" 

"Yes,  we've  got  nine  hundred  of  them." 

"Are  they  good  seats?" 

"They're  covered  with  raw  silk." 

"Can  I  get  two  for  to-night?" 

"If  you've  got  the  price." 

"Are  these  the  seats  for  to-night?" 

"No,  those  are  the  tickets.    The  seats  are  inside." 

"Will  they  be  there  when  I  come  ?" 

"Well,  they're  screwed  to  the  floor." 

After  Harrigan  and  Hart,  Charlie  Hoyt's  farces 
entered  upon  their  long  and  prosperous  run.  Hoyt  had 
edited  the  comic  column  of  the  Boston  Post  and  con 
ceived  the  idea  of  dramatizing  the  various  characters 
with  whom  comic  journalism  had  made  the  public 
familiar.  Among  these  were  the  plumber,  the  mother- 
in-law,  the  grass-widow,  and  the  temperance  crank. 
Possessed  of  a  rich  fund  of  native  humor  he  knew  its 
value  and  never  wasted  it  in  desultory  effort.  He  never 
took  up  his  pen  without  having  a  butt  for  his  wit  plainly 
in  view.  In  one  play  it  was  the  plumber,  in  another  the 
strong-minded  woman,  in  another  the  bucolic  Congress 
man,  and  in  another  the  grass-widow. 

Hoyt  was  a  superstitious  man  who  believed  in  follow 
ing  his  lucky  star.  The  title  of  his  first  play  began  with 
the  article  A,  and  he  followed  this  form  of  nomenclature 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  101 

in  every  succeeding  piece.  He  tried  out  his  first  produc 
tion  in  a  small  New  England  town  and  that  town  became 
the  scene  of  the  initial  performance  of  every  one  of  his 
subsequent  successes.  His  first  wife,  Flora  Walsh,  was 
an  actress  of  no  mean  type  and  his  second,  Caroline 
Miskel,  was  a  rarely  beautiful  woman. 

It  was  one  of  Hoyt's  songs  that  wrought  a  remark 
able  change  in  New  York's  topography  by  transferring 
from  the  Bowery  such  valuable  industries  as  the  admin 
istering  of  knock-out  drops,  bunco-steering,  dealings  in 
counterfeit  money  and  gold  bricks,  and  mock  auctions 
to  the  neighborhood  of  Broadway  and  Forty-second 
Street  where  wire-tapping  had  already  established  itself 
as  a  learned  profession.  It  happened  not  infrequently 
that  when  a  member  of  this  craft  darted  out  of  the 
Metropole  Hotel  pursued  by  a  person  of  bucolic  aspect, 
the  loiterers  on  the  pavement  would  instinctively  make 
way  for  the  wire-tapper  and  trip  up  his  pursuer,  thus 
showing  where  their  hearts  were. 

Broadway  legendry  of  recent  years  says  that  a  passen 
ger  on  a  rubber-neck  coach  exclaimed  as  his  eye  fell  on 
a  group  in  front  of  the  Metropole,  'There's  the  man  who 
stole  my  watch  and  money!"  Whereat  everybody  ran. 

It  was  early  in  the  Eighties  that  bunco-steering,  long 
practiced  in  primitive  fashion  on  the  Bowery,  gained 
sudden  notoriety  in  the  neighborhood  of  Madison  Square 
as  a  learned  profession.  One  sunny  afternoon  the  ever- 
alert  eye  of  "Hungry  Joe,"  expert  in  the  gentle  art  of 
angling  for  suckers  in  urban  waters,  brightened  per 
ceptibly  as  it  fell  upon  Oscar  Wilde,  seated  on  a  bench 
in  the  Square,  his  mind  busy  with  the  making  of  epigrams 


102 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 


and  estimates  of  the  profits  of  his  forthcoming  tour. 
Now  "Hungry  Joe"  was  a  man  of  some  literary  taste 
and  a  buyer  of  good  books,  so  it  was  easy  for  him  to 
lure  Wilde  into  a  discussion  of  the  poet's  work,  after 
the  familiar  gambit  of  having  met  him  in  the  home  of 
Mr.  Drexel  in  Philadelphia.  Nor  did  Wilde  lose  inter 
est  in  the  talk  when  his  new  acquaintance  mentioned  a 
novel  game  of  chance  in  which  he  found  much  diversion 
and  more  profit  in  the  brief  intervals  of  leisure  afforded 
by  his  arduous  literary  pursuits. 

An  hour  later  the  Irish  bard  dashed  through  the  door 
of  a  near-by  gambling  house  in  which  cards  were  dealt 
from  a  "brace  box"  and  tore  down  Twenty-third  Street 
to  his  bank  in  the  vain  hope  of  stopping  payment  on  a 
cheque  that  did  not  represent  all  his  losings. 

The  victimizing  of  the  venerable  Charles  Francis 
Adams  in  Boston  by  one  Fitzgerald  has  not  been  for 
gotten,  but  as  an  aftermath  of  that  occurrence  and  in 
evidence  of  the  fact  that  caste  is  recognized  in  the 
criminal  as  well  as  in  other  worlds,  I  will  relate  the 
following:  A  friend  whose  wide  acquaintance  among 
evil-doers  has  always  been  a  source  of  envy  to  me,  though 
I  have  done  fairly  well  myself  considering  my  early 
disadvantages,  was  walking  one  day  with  Mr.  William 
Porter,  a  bank  burglar  of  high  degree,  and  happened  to 
meet  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  who  paused  for  a  moment's  talk. 
Porter  ignored  him  and  walked  on,  and  when'  his  com 
panion  rejoined  him  he  addressed  him  in  these  words: 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  bring  yourself  to  stand  there 
talking  with  an  infernal  scoundrel  who  sneaked  himself 
into  the  confidence  of  an  aged  man  of  distinction  in 


CJ 
><   7. 


5  7. 

<  = 

|5  p- 

-  H 

*  J 

*  x 


3s 

' 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  103 

order  to  rob  him.  When  I  do  business  I  take  my  life 
and  my  liberty  in  my  hands  and  depend  on  my  nerve 
and  skill  to  carry  me  through,  and  I  never  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  sneaks." 

The  confidence  game  has  gone  higher  in  the  scale  by 
which  men  and  methods  are  judged  and  is  not  infre 
quently  employed  by  corporations  doing  business  under 
municipal  charter.  The  old  practitioners  of  the  craft 
have  disappeared  from  the  scenes  of  their  former  ex 
ploits.  Death  long  ago  claimed  Peter  Lake,  known  as 
"Grand  Central  Pete,"  and  Ike  Vail.  The  last  I  heard 
of  "Hungry  Joe"  he  was  engaged  in  the  laundry  busi 
ness,  and  his  compeer,  "Kid"  Miller,  after  years  of  re 
tirement  in  Philadelphia,  had  sought  oblivion  in  the 
shadows  of  Paterson,  N.  J.  Either  one  of  those  men 
was  sufficiently  quick  witted  to  have  been  the  hero  of  a 
story  current  a  few  years  ago. 

"You  don't  remember  me?"  exclaimed  a  slick  look 
ing  individual  as  he  grasped  a  stranger  by  the  hand: 
"I'm  Hiram  Perkins'  son  and  I  met  you  in  his  bank  in 
Schoharie." 

"Hold  on,"  rejoined  the  other,  over  whose  face  had 
crept  a  look  of  bucolic  cunning;  "I  never  saw  you  in 
Schoharie  and  I've  lived  there  all  my  life.  What's  more, 
Hiram  Perkins  was  never  married." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  the  stranger  promptly:  "I'm  his 
illegitimate  son  and  that's  the  reason  I  simply  can't  bear 
to  go  back  to  the  dear  old  home  town  where  everybody 
knows  about  it." 

During  the  early  Seventies  many  cheap  playhouses, 
some  of  which  were  little  better  than  dives,  were  con- 


104  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

ducted  in  New  York,  and  perhaps  the  humblest  of  all  the 
respectable  ones  was  the  Grand  Duke's  Opera  House, 
situated  in  a  Baxter  Street  cellar  and  named  in  honor  of 
the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  then  a  visitor  to  this  country. 
It  was  conducted  by  street  boys  who  also  composed  the 
acting  company,  admission  was  six  cents,  tallow  candles 
served  as  footlights  and  wash-tubs  as  private  boxes.  It 
is  doubtful  if  any  of  the  serious  critics  of  that  day  ever 
gave  it  any  consideration  whatever  or  attended  any  of 
its  performances;  nevertheless  it  was  from  the  Grand 
Duke's  that  there  sprang  one  of  the  very  best  entertain 
ments  that  New  York  has  ever  known. 

A  star  attraction  at  this  playhouse  was  a  young  come 
dian  of  unusual,  though  undeveloped  powers.  So  well 
did  he  and  his  associates  draw  that  a  boy  named  Joseph 
Tooker,  the  son  of  a  well  known  manager  of  that  name, 
opened  a  rival  theatre  on  his  father's  premises  and  looked 
about  him  for  a  new  comedian.  Hearing  that  a  boy  on 
the  East  Side  was  displaying  much  adolescent  talent,  he 
sought  him  out  and  found  him  tending  a  street  soda- 
fountain.  The  lad  agreed  to  join  his  company  provided 
his  friend  and  partner  were  also  engaged  and  the  two 
soon  became  favorites  in  the  new  place  of  amusement. 
The  soda-fountain  boy  was  Joe  Weber,  his  side-partner 
was  Lew  Fields,  and  the  star  of  the  Grand  Duke's  was 
Sam  Bernard.  Many  years  later  the  three  were  associ 
ated  together  in  a  Broadway  playhouse  that  lives  in 
theatrical  history. 

I  doubt  if  even  those  who  laughed  the  longest  and 
the  loudest  at  the  Weber-Fieldian  drolleries  ever  fully 
realized  the  artistic  merit  of  this  entertainment.  Fields 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  105 

was,  and  is  to  this  day,  one  of  the  best  low  comedians  on 
our  stage  and  his  partner,  a  "feeder"  of  equal  distinction. 

Years  ago  when  the  two  were  struggling  upward  on 
the  cheaper  variety  circuits,  they  received  their  first  recog 
nition  from  a  really  high  source.  One  night  as  they 
were  dressing  at  the  close  of  their  act,  they  were 
astounded  by  receiving  the  card  of  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson 
and  a  moment  later  that  distinguished  actor  had  taken 
them  both  by  the  hand,  saying:  "I  just  called  to  tell  you 
boys  how  much  I  like  your  work,"  and  then,  after  heartily 
complimenting  Fields,  he  added,  "Mr.  Weber,  you  are 
one  of  the  best  listeners  I've  seen  in  a  long  time.  Keep  it 
up,  my  boy,  and  it  will  be  the  making  of  you."  His 
prophecy  came  true  because  Weber  was  an  element  of 
great  strength,  though  not  always  appreciated  by  laymen, 
in  bringing  out  the  work  of  his  associates. 

Another  reason  for  the  success  of  Weber  and  Fields 
was  the  fact  that,  unlike  many  players  whom  I  could 
name,  they  were  never  jealous  of  the  other  entertainers 
in  their  company  and  allowed  them  to  give  full  scope  to 
their  talents.  Little  by  little  they  increased  the  strength 
of  their  organization.  Edgar  Smith  was  their  librettist 
and  they  could  not  have  had  a  better  one  for  he  was  a 
man  of  real  wit,  and  when  they  were  at  their  best,  their 
company  included,  beside  that  excellent  comedian  Sam 
Bernard,  Lillian  Russell,  Peter  F.  Dailey,  Willie  Collier, 
David  Warfield,  De  Wolf  Hopper,  Fay  Templeton,  John 
T.  Kelly,  Charles  J.  Ross,  Mabel  Fenton  and  such  dancers 
as  the  Angeles  Sisters,  daughters  of  Alexander  Zanbetta, 
of  the  Ravel  family,  and  Bonnie  Maginn.  Where  is  to 
be  found  such  a  constellation  to-day? 


106  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Dailey  was  an  entertainer  rather  than  an  actor  and  to 
my  mind  one  of  the  funniest  of  men,  quick  at  repartee 
and  what  is  called  a  good  "producer,"  meaning  one  who 
can  interpolate  a  witty  line  at  a  moment's  notice;  but, 
unlike  many  persons  of  quick  wit,  he  never  said  anything 
calculated  to  belittle  an  associate.  He  was  seen  at  his 
best  on  first  nights,  when,  at  the  final  fall  of  the  curtain, 
the  ushers  began  to  stagger  down  the  aisles  with  the 
flowers  that  had  been  stacked  up  in  the  lobby.  Dailey 
would  receive  these  flowers  and  distribute  them  with 
characteristic  comments.  On  one  occasion  when  Miss 
Templeton  had  scored  such  a  hit  that  the  house  had 
scarcely  ceased  to  echo  the  applause,  Pete  glanced  at  the 
card  accompanying  a  great  sheaf  of  American  Beauties 
and  then  said  aloud,  "Miss  Fay  Templeton,"  and,  turn 
ing  with  a  puzzled  expression  on  his  face  to  the  chorus, 
he  inquired  benignly:  "Which  of  these  ladies  is  Miss 
Templeton?" 

On  receiving  a  bunch  of  flowers  for  Miss  Frankie 
Bailey,  he  quickly  ran  his  eye  over  the  legs  of  the  chorus 
until  he  reached  hers  and  thus  recognizing  her,  handed 
over  the  flowers. 

Mr.  Collier  was  another  valued  member  of  the  com 
pany  and  an  actor  whose  methods  may  be  studied  to  ad 
vantage.  In  his  hands  farcical  acting  is  not  merely  un 
couth  clowning,  but  a  fine  art.  It  was  while  playing 
at  Weber  and  Field's  that  Belasco  saw  that  Warfield, 
then  confining  himself  to  Jewish  impersonations,  pos 
sessed  emotional  possibilities  of  the  highest  sort,  some 
thing  that  Warfield  himself  had  never  suspected,  and  he 
signed  with  him  to  star  in  The  Auctioneer.  I  happened 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  107 

to  be  present  at  the  rehearsal  when  Belasco  wrote  into 
the  star's  part  a  pathetic  line  which  the  latter  at  first 
refused  to  read,  saying,  "I  can  make  them  laugh  but  I 
can't  make  them  cry."  Years  afterward  Wilton  Lack- 
aye  asked  Warfield  to  give  one  of  his  old  Jewish  im 
personations  at  a  Lambs'  Gambol.  "I  don't  want  to  do 
that  old  stuff  again,"  said  the  other.  "I  used  to  make 
them  laugh;  now  I  make  them  cry." 

"Make  them  cry!"  exclaimed  Lackaye.  "Any  onion 
can  do  that,  but  you  show  me  a  vegetable  that  can  make 
them  laugh!" 

As  Harrigan  and  Hart  had  given  expression  to  the 
racial  comedy  of  the  lower  wards,  so  did  Weber  and 
Fields  portray  that  of  upper  Broadway  with  which  their 
audiences,  and  especially  those  who  assembled  on  first 
nights,  were  thoroughly  familiar. 

The  variety  stage  which  gave  New  York  this  famous 
company  and  in  later  years  many  of  our  best  players, 
was  then  dominated  by  Tony  Pastor,  whose  efforts  to 
improve  our  theatre  have  not  to  this  day  received  the 
recognition  that  is  their  due.  Of  gypsy  blood  and  of  a 
family  well  known  in  the  circus  ring — he  had  himself 
been  a  clown  in  his  early  days — he  engaged  in  manage 
ment  on  the  Bowery  in  the  late  Sixties  at  a  time  when 
the  variety  theatre  was  little  better  than  a  dive  and  was 
not  patronized  by  the  more  respectable  classes.  In  order 
to  place  it  on  a  higher  plane  he  provided  entertainment 
that  could  not  offend  decent  taste  and  offered  prizes  of 
half-barrels  of  flour,  half-tons  of  coal  and  dress  patterns 
to  induce  respectable  housewives  to  visit  his  theatre  on 
Saturday  nights.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  was  the 


108  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

only  manager  in  New  York  who  would  not  allow  a  pro 
fane  word  to  be  said  on  his  stage.  His  theatre  proved 
an  admirable  school  for  the  training  of  actors,  for  the 
different  "turns"  were  of  short  duration  and  the  players 
were  compelled  to  make  every  moment  count.  In  this 
way  the  art  of  "feeding"  was  developed  and  a  good 
"feeder,"  that  is  to  say  one  who  gave  force  to  another's 
work  by  paying  close  attention,  became  a  highly  prized 
performer.  Those  who  have  watched  the  rise  of  players 
from  their  humble  beginnings  in  variety  to  the  high  places 
of  the  profession  will  understand  that  I  am  quite  serious 
when  I  say  that  the  most  important  moment  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  development  of  the  theatre  in  this  country 
was  that  in  which  Tony  Pastor  first  gave  away  his  coal, 
flour  and  dress  patterns  to  secure  the  patronage  of  re 
spectable  women. 

To  this  day  I  recall  with  unfeigned  delight  the  various 
players  who  found  free  expression  for  their  talents  in 
the  short  "turns"  which  made  up  a  variety  programme, 
and  I  have  seen  many  of  those  players  graduate  into 
legitimate  and  take  high  places  there.  I  remember  one 
after-piece  at  Tony  Pastor's  in  which  Lillian  Russell, 
Nat  Goodwin,  May  and  Flo  Irwin  and  Jacques  Kruger 
appeared. 

John  W.  Kelly,  an  unforgettable  monologist,  to 
whom  his  associates  paid  the  supreme  tribute  due  to  one 
who  "wrote  his  own  stuff,"  still  has  a  warm  place  in 
my  heart.  Kelly  called  himself  the  "Rolling-Mill  Man" 
and  dressed  after  the  fashion  of  a  prosperous  mechanic 
in  Sunday  attire.  He  wore  spectacles  without  glasses 
and  had  a  way  of  looking  over  the  tops  of  them  that 


I 


u  * 
—    — 

a.  — 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  109 

gave  to  his  visage  an  expression  of  owlish  wisdom.  His 
entrance  was  always  the  signal  for  uproarious  applause, 
which  he  acknowledged  with,  "Thank  God  the  house  is 
full  of  good  Irish  people  to-night.  You  never  hear  a 
German  roar  like  that  except  he's  losing  money."  His 
humor  was  quaint  and  original  and  not  unlike  that  of 
Peter  Dunne,  and  his  construction  of  a  brief  funny  story 
a  triumph  of  Sardou-like  skill. 

Another  artist — and  I  use  the  term  advisedly — was 
Vesta  Tilley,  the  male  impersonator,  who  was  even  su 
perior  to  Ella  Wesner  of  an  earlier  period.  In  one  re 
spect  Miss  Tilley  ranked  far  ahead  of  her  fellow  players, 
for  her  enunciation  of  the  English  tongue,  her  clear 
articulation  of  each  syllable  and  the  exquisite  musical 
quality  of  her  voice  left  an  indelible  impress  on  the  cul 
tivated  ear  and  were  not  lost  upon  the  rest  of  the  audi 
ence.  Her  singing  of  "Algy"  still  lingers  in  my 
memory.  A  few  years  ago  Miss  Tilley's  husband  was 
knighted  and  I  believe  she  is  now  the  only  music  hall 
artist  in  England  who  bears  the  title  of  Lady,  a  distinc 
tion  well  deserved. 

I  have  never  witnessed  on  any  stage  a  sketch  that  was 
richer  in  spontaneous  fun  than  The  Rival  Car-Con 
ductors  as  interpreted  by  Johnny  Wild  and  Billy  Gray. 
It  was  one  continuous  laugh  from  beginning  to  end 
and  its  finale  was  a  veritable  triumph. 

Scores  of  these  old-time  entertainers  come  back  to  me 
as  I  write.  Harry  and  John  Kernell  in  their  sidewalk 
conversation;  Kitty  O'Neill,  the  nimble  and  graceful 
jig-dancer;  and  the  Russell  Brothers,  the  originators  of 
"Maggie,  did  you  give  the  goldfish  fresh  water?"  "No, 


110  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

they  ain't  drank  up  all  I  give  them  yesterday."  And 
then  there  was  Tony  Pastor  himself,  who  was  allowed 
to  sing  because  of  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was  held 
by  his  patrons.  His  chef  d'oeuvre  was  The  Girl  in  the 
Calico  Dress,  which  had  a  strong  homely  appeal. 

What  is  called  farce-comedy,  probably  because  it  is 
neither  farce  nor  comedy,  made  its  first  appearance  on 
our  stage  in  a  play  called,  The  Tourists  in  the  Pullman 
Palace  Car,  which  was  made  up  largely  of  old  variety 
gags,  and  these  seemed  so  fresh  to  audiences  who  had 
been  brought  up  to  scorn  variety  that  the  piece  was 
immediately  successful  and  was  followed  by  scores  of 
similar  ones.  But  we  young  fellows  who  had  been  reared 
on  minstrelsy  and  variety  looked  on  these  entertainments 
with  infinite  contempt. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  writing  the  masked 
^*-  balls  given  at  the  Academy  of  Music  were -a  dis 
tinct  feature  of  gay  metropolitan  life,  while  that  of  the 
Cercle  de  I'Harmonie  was  really  a  gorgeous  affair  of  its 
kind  and  largely  attended  by  the  jeunesse  doree,  the  lead 
ing  members  of  the  demi-monde  and  a  goodly  number 
of  actors  and  actresses.  This  annual  affair  lost  prestige 
in  later  years  when  there  was  more  Yiddish  than  French 
spoken  by  its  frequenters. 

There  was  always  a  fine  supper  for  members  of  the 
press  and  a  few  persons  of  importance,  like  Police  Com 
missioners,  and  one  evening  I  found  myself  seated  at  a 
table  next  to  a  man  of  about  my  own  age,  of  distinctly 
clerical  appearance  and  a  certain  precise  manner  that 
seemed  to  set  him  apart  from  the  other  revellers.  This 
was  H.  C.  Bunner,  then  editor  of  Puck,  and  the  ac 
quaintance  begun  that  night  developed  into  an  intimacy 
that  lasted  until  the  day  of  his  death  and  proved  of  in 
calculable  value  to  me  professionally.  Through  Bunner 
I  came  to  know  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  who  then  lived 
in  the  same  apartment  house  with  Bunner,  at  the  north 
eastern  corner  of  Seventeenth  Street  and  Stuyvesant 
Square.  Richard  Grant  White,  and  later  Mr.  W.  D. 
Howells  lived  in  the  same  house,  and  another  tenant  was 
the  daughter  of  Charles  Actor  Bristed,  the  author  of  the 

ill 


112  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

earliest  novel  of  New  York  society,  'The  Upper  Ten 
Thousand."  The  Matthews'  apartment  had  an  unusually 
large  drawing-room  to  which  we  young  fellows  were 
made  welcome  on  Sunday  evenings. 

Well  do  I  remember  those  Sunday  evenings  and  the 
company  that  graced  them.  Mrs.  Matthews  had  been  an 
English  actress  of  no  small  note  and  numbered  many 
professional  men  and  women  among  her  friends.  Her 
husband  was  the  son  of  a  man  who  then  ranked  as  one 
of  the  richest  of  New  Yorkers,  holding  title  to  more 
city  real  estate  than  anyone  save  the  Astors.  Brander 
had  from  his  earliest  years  devoted  himself  to  literature 
and  the  stage  and  his  associates  were  largely  drawn  from 
those  two  professions.  The  usual  New  York  salon  is  a 
cage  for  the  exhibition  of  celebrities  when  caught,  and 
the  hostess  generally  contrives  to  turn  her  prey  to  profit 
able  account  as  bait  for  the  fashionable  society  to  which 
she  aspires.  The  Matthews'  guests  were  first  of  all  their 
friends  and  we  young  fellows  who  were  neither  fashion 
able  nor  celebrated  were  welcomed  as  if  we  had  been 
both. 

It  was  here  that  I  made  many  acquaintances  and  not 
a  few  friends.  Among  them  I  recall  Miss  Sara  Jewett, 
then  leading  lady  of  the  Union  Square  Company; 
William  Dean  Howells,  Mrs.  G.  H.  Gilbert,  Mrs.  Agnes 
Booth,  Thomas  Whiffen,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Drew,  M. 
Coquelin,  Miss  Agnes  Ethel,  Miss  May  Fielding  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Lewis.  As  the  gatherings  were 
purely  professional  these  artists  were  not  averse  to  con 
tributing  of  their  talents  and  I  still  remember  Agnes 
Booth's  splendid  reading  of  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg. 


ft 

" 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  113 

Another  drawing-room  that  was  thrown  open  to  us 
was  that  of  Laurence  Hutton,  whose  house  on  West 
Thirty-fourth  Street  still  stands.  Hutton  was  an  amateur 
in  friends;  he  collected  them  as  other  men  collect  china 
or  postage  stamps  and  as  he  himself  was  a  good  friend 
he  acquired  a  remarkable  assortment.  I  helped  to 
arrange  the  dinner  we  gave  on  the  occasion  of  his  mar 
riage  and  although  no  effort  was  made  to  secure  the  at 
tendance  of  celebrities  because  they  were  celebrities,  the 
company  included  Edwin  Booth,  John  Fiske,  Mark 
Twain,  Bunner  and  others  whose  names  I  do  not  recall. 
There  were  not  wanting  those  who  called  Hutton  a 
literary  and  artistic  snob,  because  of  his  fondness  for 
distinguished  company,  but,  like  Matthews,  he  was  just 
as  friendly  and  hospitable  to  many  of  us  who  had  no 
reputation  as  he  was  to  his  more  famous  guests.  I  recall 
many  Sunday  evenings  in  his  drawing-room  and  dining- 
room  with  very  great  pleasure. 

Through  Bunner,  I  became  acquainted  with  the  Puck 
staff  and  it  was  to  that  periodical  that  I  contributed  some 
of  the  earliest  of  my  humorous  sketches. '  Puck,  which 
had  originally  failed  in  St.  Louis,  had  been  started  in 
New  York  in  German,  and  the  English  edition  was  then 
struggling  for  existence.  Many  a  time  did  Schwartz- 
mann  declare  that  they  would  get  out  no  more  English 
Puck,  and  it  was  only  because  of  Bunner's  remonstrances 
that  it  was  continued.  It  was  not  long  after  my  first 
connection  with  it,  that  it  became  the  great  and  influen 
tial  organ  which  is  still  remembered.  Frederick  B. 
Opper,  James  A.  Wales  and  Keppler  were  its  chief 
artists  while  Bunner,  B.  B.  Vallentine  and  R.  K.  Mun- 


114  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

kittrick  formed  its  literary  staff.  Bunner  wrote  the  edi 
torials  which  attracted  the  attention  of  serious  minds  all 
over  the  country  and  he  was  then  beginning  to  write  the 
poems  and  short  stories  that  were  destined  to  give  him  an 
honored  place  in  American  literature.  Munkittrick — put 
the  accent  on  the  penultimate  syllable — was  of  Irish 
blood  and  a  most  amusing  character.  His  humor  was  of 
a  school  now  deemed  old-fashioned ;  it  was  called  "acro 
batic"  then,  meaning  that  it  dealt  largely  with  comical 
personal  catastrophe.  He  was  also  a  versifier  of  no  mean 
skill  with  an  extraordinary  facility  for  rhyming  and  a 
genuine  feeling  for  poetic  beauty  and  verbal  melody. 
He  could  express  himself  in  rhyme  almost  as  easily  as 
in  prose  and  he  seemed  incapable  of  a  false  quantity  in 
his  written  work. 

I  can  give  no  better  illustration  of  his  poetic  feeling 
and  gift  of  impromptu  rhyming  than  by  relating  the  his 
tory  of  a  quatrain  that  has  been  often  printed  and  at 
tributed  to  "Oxford  rhymesters"  and  other  persons  of 
presumable  culture.  When  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
Child's  Garden  of  Verses  reached  Puck  office,  Munkit 
trick  read  it  through  with  keen  attention  and  then  re 
marked  as  he  laid  the  book  aside: 

Austin,  Austin,  Austin,  Dobby,  Dobby,  Dobby; 
Although  writing  verses  seems  to  be  your  hobby, 
Stevenson  can  take  you,  with  Gosse  and  Andy  Lang, 
And  knock  your  heads  together  with  a  bang,  bang,  bang. 

A  friend  of  mine  told  me  that  he  once  repeated  these 
lines  to  Austin  Dobson  and  that  the  latter  did  not  seem 
to  think  them  very  funny. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  115 

The  themes  in  which  Munkittrick  excelled  were  such 
homely  ones  on  the  antics  of  the  goat,  the  putting  up 
and  taking  down  of  the  stove-pipe,  the  unwelcome  visit 
of  the  mother-in-law  and  the  inebriate's  return  from  the 
lodge  meeting.  His  verse,  however,  often  had  a  really 
fine  serious  quality  and  if  he  failed  to  dispose  of  it  in 
this  form  he  would  change  it  by  the  addition  of  what 
he  called  "a  comic  snapper"  and  contribute  it  to  Puck. 

Among  the  frequenters  of  the  office  at  this  time  were 
Ernest  Harvier,  now  well  known  as  a  political  writer; 
Andrew  E.  Watrous,  who  lived  to  become  one  of  the 
best  editorial  writers  in  the  city;  Julian  Magnus,  C.  C. 
Starkweather,  Maurice  Barrymore  and  George  H.  Jessop 
the  dramatist,  who  later  inherited  an  estate  in  Ireland 
and  thereafter  lived  abroad  and  never  failed  to  entertain 
such  of  his  old  friends  as  presented  themselves  at  his 
door. 

Jessop  had  been  a  newspaper  man  in  San  Francisco 
before  he  became  a  dramatist  and  was  present  in  his 
capacity  as  dramatic  critic  at  Modjeska's  debut  there  as 
an  English-speaking  actress.  Deeply  impressed  by  her 
talents  he  imparted  his  opinion  the  next  day  to  a  man 
ager  named  Harry  Sergeant  and  the  latter  made  haste 
to  sign  the  Polish  artist  for  her  first  American  tour. 

Jessop  was  the  great-grandson  of  a  jovial  Irish 
baronet  who  lived  in  a  remote  part  of  Ireland,  and  one 
night  two  young  men  paused  in  the  village  to  ask  a  peas 
ant  which  was  the  best  house  there,  meaning  of  course 
the  best  house  of  call.  The  peasant  indicated  the 
baronet's  manor  house  which  was  the  finest  place  of  resi 
dence,  and  thither  the  two  travelers  made  their  way  and 


116  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

asked  to  be  entertained  for  the  night.  The  baronet 
courteously  asked  their  names  and  saw  that  one  of  them 
was  the  son  of  an  old  friend  of  his  and,  realizing  that 
they  had  mistaken  his  home  for  an  inn,  amused  himself 
by  assuming  the  mien  of  a  landlord  and  obsequiously 
setting  before  them  the  best  that  the  house  afforded.  So 
lavish  was  their  entertainment  that  it  was  with  fear 
and  trembling  that  the  young  men  asked  for  their  bill 
the  next  morning  and  not  until  then  did  their  host  ex 
plain  his  joke.  The  son  of  his  old  friend  was  Oliver 
Goldsmith  and  the  episode  gave  the  latter  the  idea  for 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  one  of  the  classic  comedies  of 
the  stage. 

The  German  Puck  had  a  succession  of  editors,  many 
of  whom  died  in  the  service  and  were  cremated,  their 
ashes,  enclosed  in  jars,  being  actually  kept  as  fitting 
German  ornaments  to  the  office  and  reminders  of  the 
fleeting  nature  of  editorial  life.  The  editor  whom  I  best 
knew  was  Carl  Hauser,  well  known  to  the  entire  German 
community  as  the  embodiment  of  the  humor  of  his  race. 
Hauser's  activities  were  not  limited  to  the  editorial  desk. 
He  published  an  annual  almanac  in  which  all  German 
business  men  were  expected  to  advertise,  and  in  the 
spring  he  gave  a  humorous  lecture,  for  which  he  was 
always  prepared  to  sell  tickets  direct  from  his  own  hand 
to  that  of  the  consumer.  He  also  derived  a  considerable 
income  from  the  poems  that  he  read  at  all  sorts  of 
gatherings,  including  funerals,  christenings  and  club 
meetings.  He  possessed  a  great  stock  of  these  efforts 
carefully  arranged  and  was  adept  in  changing  the  verses 
written  for  Mr.  Weingartner's  obsequies  to  something 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  117 

quite  appropriate  to  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Blumenthars 
daughter. 

Hauser  was  a  leading  spirit  in  the  Schlaraffia,  of  which 
I  was  the  only  American  member.  This  typically  Ger 
man  society  was  founded  in  Prague  by  certain  easygoing, 
impecunious  gentlemen  whose  idea  was  to  enjoy  at 
stated  intervals  an  evening  in  Schlaraffcnland,  a  mythical 
region  in  which  care  is  unknown  and  roasted  pigeons 
fly  into  the  mouths  of  the  hungry.  Its  membership  grew 
until  it  embraced  many  persons  of  artistic  talent,  includ 
ing  composers  like  Abt  and  Genee,  who  wrote  really 
fine  choruses  for  it.  At  one  ol  the  Ladies'  Nights  of  this 
society,  Hauser  was  in  the  midst  of  a  speech,  when  some 
ladies  in  the  audience  handed  up  to  him  a  large  doll- 
baby  which  they  had  prepared  for  his  discomfiture. 
Hauser  examined  his  prize  and  then  addressed  the  donors 
in  his  native  tongue  causing  such  an  outburst  of 
laughter  as  I  have  never  heard  in  my  life.  As  the 
shrieks  and  yells  subsided  I  turned  to  my  neighbor  and 
asked  what  it  meant. 

"Ach,  dot  Hauser,  he  is  so  funny !"  he  exclaimed,  wip 
ing  the  tears  from  his  face.  "He  said,  'this  child  seems 
suffering  for  want  of  nourishment.  Perhaps  some  lady 
in  the  audience  will  be  able  kindly  to  oblige.' ' 

Literature  was  by  no  means  the  profitable  occupation 
that  it  is  now.  The  Century,  Harper's,  and  Harper  s 
Weekly  were  the  chief  markets  for  the  writer.  Richard 
Watson  Gilder,  the  Century  editor,  was  a  man  of  real 
literary  taste  and,  thanks  to  him,  writers  began  to  re^ 
ceive  the  consideration  that  was  their  due.  He  paid  for 
manuscript  on  acceptance  and  the  signatures  were  printed 


118  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

conspicuously,  whereas  Harper's  Magazine  had  not 
allowed  any  signatures  and  had  even  printed  as  a  serial 
William  Black's  "MacLeod  of  Dare,"  without  the  name 
of  its  author.  The  influence  of  the  Century,  was  of 
course,  very  great,  but  not  altogether  beneficial.  It  cer 
tainly  gave  encouragement  to  young  writers  and  Mr. 
Gilder  was  not  slow  to  recognize  merit  in  manuscript, 
but  its  contents  were  limited  to  matter  which  would  not 
offend  any  one — a  policy  that  is  better  for  the  counting- 
room  than  for  the  making  of  good  literature.  Of  course 
it  was  the  ambition  of  all  of  us  to  "get  into  the  Century'* 
as  it  was  phrased,  and  Bunner  and  Jessop  were  about 
the  only  ones  of  our  set  who  achieved  that  ambition. 
Bunner  was  distinctly  a  man  of  letters.  Brought  up  to 
the  reading  habit  under  the  eye  of  his  Uncle  Henry 
Tuckerman,  who  was  himself  a  writer  and  connoisseur 
of  good  books,  he  belonged  rather  to  the  earlier  period 
of  Lowell,  Holmes,  Curtis  and  others  than  to  his  own. 

It  was  Watrous  who  introduced  us  to  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  through  the  medium  of  a  copy  of  "The  New 
Arabian  Nights,"  and  Bunner  promptly  obtained  an 
order  from  the  Century  for  an  essay  on  the  new  writer. 
I  remember  that  he  had  a  struggle  because  he  insisted 
upon  using  the  word  genius,  to  which  superlative  Mr. 
Gilder  hesitated  to  commit  himself,  but  such  was  his 
enthusiasm  that  he  threatened  to  withdraw  his  manu 
script  unless  the  word  were  allowed.  It  is  pleasant  to 
know  that  he  gained  his  point,  and  equally  pleasant  to 
remember  that  we  were  the  earliest  of  Stevenson's  ad 
mirers  in  New  York. 

A  man  whom  I  came  to  know  very  well  was  E.  J. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  119 

Henley,  an  actor  of  unusual  nervous  power  only  partly 
developed.  He  was  a  brother  of  W.  E.  Henley  and  in 
view  of  the  attack  made  by  that  poet  on  the  memory 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  directly  after  the  latter's 
death,  the  discussion  that  it  caused  and  the  pain  it  gave 
to  Stevenson's  friends  and  to  the  many  thousands  who 
had  read  and  admired  him,  it  may  be  pertinent  to  relate 
what  the  actor  told  me  about  the  relations  between  the 
two,  long  before  the  novelist's  death. 

"We  were  little  better  than  London  street  boys  and 
had  to  make  our  way  in  the  world  in  the  face  of  every 
disadvantage.  It  was  while  my  brother  was  lying  ill 
in  the  common  ward  of  the  Edinburgh  hospital  that 
Stevenson  read  some  verses  he  had  written  and  ascer 
tained  his  whereabouts  and  pitiful  condition.  He  came 
at  once  to  his  bed-side,  heartened  him  up  as  best  he  could, 
supplied  him  with  delicacies  and  did  everything  in  his 
power  to  put  him  on  his  feet.  He  did  more  than  that. 
He  encouraged  him  to  write — and  just  then  my  poor 
brother  needed  all  the  encouragement  he  could  get.  He 
taught  him  how  to  support  himself  with  his  pen  so  that 
when  he  left  his  bed  he  had  his  living  at  his  fingers' 
ends.  No  man  ever  had  a  better  friend  than  Stevenson 
was  to  my  brother." 

And  yet  the  sods  had  barely  ceased  to  fall  on  his 
friend's  coffin  when  the  poet  whom  he  had  helped  to 
place  on  his  feet  let  loose  his  stream  of  jealous  spleen, 
none  the  less  malignant  because  it  was  couched  in  cun 
ning  terms. 

Before  the  Century  era  we  had  had  but  few  women 
writers,  and  of  these  only  the  most  distinguished  signed 


120  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

their  own  names.  Those  of  lesser  standing  or  greater 
reticence  wrote  under  alliterative  names  like  Grace 
Greenwood,  Jennie  June,  Fanny  Fern,  or  Sophie  Sparkle 
and  devoted  themselves  chiefly  to  those  homely  domestic 
themes  of  chaste  love  and  domesticity  that  lie  so  near 
the  feminine  heart.  The  new  order  developed  many 
women  writers  and  also  thousands  of  readers  of  the  same 
sex,  to  gain  whose  favor,  and  with  it  admission  to  the 
carefully  guarded  Century  pages,  it  was  necessary  to 
depict  life  not  as  it  was,  but  as  these  readers  would  like 
to  have  it.  It  was  because  of  this  necessity  that  the 
San  Francisco  Argonaut,  at  that  time  the  best  literary 
publication  in  the  country,  was  looked  to  by  all  of  us 
as  a  market  for  the  best  work  we  were  capable  of 
writing. 

One  thing  that  can  be  said  of  Mr.  Gilder  is  that  he 
discouraged  a  certain  false  school  of  fiction  then  affected 
by  many  of  us  who  were  writing  under  the  influence 
of  Bret  Harte  and  of  a  certain  side  of  Dickens.  We 
could  not  imitate  the  remarkable  story-telling  gift  of 
either  of  those  men,  but  sentimentality  and  the  idealiza 
tion  of  criminals  appealed  to  us  strongly  and  we  wasted 
much  time  and  talent  in  pathetic  accounts  of  dying 
burglars,  babbling  of  their  mothers  and  expiring  with 
the  heavenly  forgiveness  just  in  sight.  We  were  also 
prone  to  become  tearful  over  those  noble  women  who 
had  "erred"  or  "gone  wrong"  as  we  delicately  phrased 
it  and  whose  deathbeds  were  crowned  with  a  halo  of 
repentance  as  their  last  thoughts  turned  heavenward. 
Not  until  much  later  in  life  did  I  realize  the  utter  falsity 
of  this  maudlin  school  of  fiction.  The  real  burglar  is 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  121 

never  turned  from  his  wicked  ways  by  the  innocent 
child  who,  awakened  by  his  presence  in  her  chamber  on 
plunder  bent,  fires  texts  at  him  from  her  crib;  nor  does 
he  ever  refer  to  his  mother  except  in  terms  of  obloquy 
for  having  brought  him  into  the  world.  As  for  the 
deathbeds  conjured  from  our  callow  brains  they  were 
pitifully  lacking  in  the  pathos  and  solemnity  that  mark 
the  ending  of  every  human  life,  even  that  of  an  evil 
doer.  I  have  carried  with  me  for  many  a  year  an 
unforgettable  hospital  memory  of  a  priest,  shadowed  on 
a  white  screen  as  he  shrived  some  passing  soul,  while 
the  whole  ward  watched  in  reverent  silence  and  a  few 
feeble  hands  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  last  moments  of  the  criminal  are  dominated  by  an 
unwillingness  to  talk  and  perhaps  betray  others,  which  is 
the  best  trait  he  has.  When  the  placing  of  the  white 
screen  around  his  cot  tells  him  that  the  end  is  near  he 
turns  his  face  to  the  whitewashed  wall  of  the  hospital 
and,  like  Beaufort,  "dies  and  makes  no  sign."  The 
truth  is  we  were  undergoing  a  sort  of  literary  measles 
then  and  I  am  glad  to  record  the  fact  that,  thanks  largely 
to  their  treatment  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Gilder,  none  of 
the  cases  proved  fatal. 

There  was  another  juvenile  complaint  from  which  we 
all  suffered  and  which  the  Century  did  nothing  to  allevi 
ate.  We  called  it  local  color  and  it  produced  a  sort  of 
rash  of  small  details  not  worth  mentioning.  I  think  we 
caught  that  rash  from  Mr.  Howells  and  Mr.  James  and 
allowed  it  to  assume  an  exaggerated  form,  somewhat  in 
this  fashion: 

"It  was  in  bitter  mood  that  Hiram  Outhouse,  plac- 


122  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

ing  one  foot  after  the  other,  descended  the  steps  of 
Millicent's  home,  for  her  prompt  rejection  of  his  suit 
had  been  a  severe  blow  to  his  pride.  As  he  gained  the 
sidewalk  he  paused  a  moment  for  a  last  glance  at  the 
door  which  he  felt  would  be  henceforth  closed  to  him, 
noting  idly  the  number  124  engraved  on  its  silver  plate; 
then,  turning  his  gaze  across  the  street,  he  saw  the 
numbers  123  and  125  staring  ominously  from  two  ad 
jacent  transoms.  Car  number  28,  drawn  by  two  gaunt 
horses,  whose  reins  were  held  by  an  ill-clad  driver, 
passed  him  as  he  stood  irresolute.  From  the  edge  of 
the  garbage  can  on  the  curb  hung  a  banana  peel,  giving 
a  bright  note  of  color  to  the  drab  mass  of  ashes  and 
waste  paper  and  the  cool  grayness  of  the  galvanized  iron 
container.  Far  up  the  street  Hiram's  eye  caught  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  through  the  dim,  overhanging 
haze,  remote,  intangible,  quiescent." 

That  was  the  sort  of  stuff  that  we  used  to  read  to  one 
another,  seldom  without  eliciting  friendly  encomiums. 
As  for  poetry  it  was  beyond  the  reach  of  all  of  us  save 
the  gifted  few,  though  the  Ledger  afforded  a  market  for 
a  line  of  doggerel  in  which  a  few  of  us  excelled.  Munkit- 
trick,  who  eked  out  his  living  with  many  of  these  pot 
boilers,  expressed  his  profound  contempt  for  this  dog 
gerel  and  its  markets,  not  including  himself,  and  his  criti 
cism  of  the  "one-rhyme-to-the-quatrain"  bards  often  ex 
tended  to  their  immediate  ancestors.  I  wonder  what  he 
would  have  said  to  the  "no-rhyme-to-the-quatrain"  vers 
libre  of  the  present. 

Another  complaint  from  which  even  adult  writers 
suffered  and  which  the  Century  encouraged  instead  of 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  123 

checking,  was  the  dialect  rash  that  swept  over  the  liter 
ary  world  with  results  that  seem  incredible  to  me  now. 
During  its  prevalence  stories  of  the  most  pitiful  nature 
found  a  ready  market  so  long  as  they  were  spelt  wrong 
and,  as  the  vulgates  of  the  various  races  of  the  earth 
became  exhausted,  fraudulent  ones,  the  products  of 
fertile  minds,  replaced  them.  Straightway  was  our 
fiction  enriched  by  Irishmen  who  said  "be  gobs"  and 
"be  jabers,"  Englishmen  who  said,  "h'l  h'invite  h'every- 
body,"  and  Frenchmen  who  said,  "zis"  and  "zat."  Some 
of  these  perversions  have  become  permanently  imbedded 
in  our  literature. 

A  still  more  distressing  evil  than  this  distortion  of 
words,  and  one  that  can  also  be  traced  to  the  influences 
of  the  early  Eighties,  is  the  habit  of  misrepresenting  life 
in  order  to  please  our  best-buying  public.  I  never  take 
up  a  novel  dealing  with  any  of  the  few  phases  of  life 
that  I  know  about  without  feeling  certain  that  many 
pages  of  mendacity  will  challenge  my  intelligence,  and 
that,  too,  through  the  medium  of  characters,  scenes  and 
situations  employed  many  times  before.  I  know  full 
well  that  in  the  tale  of  municipal  politics  the  young  re 
former  will  "go  down  to  live  among  the  poor" — a  deed 
of  perennial  delight  to  the  feminine  soul — and  become  a 
standing  menace  to  the  corrupt  "saloon  politicians"  of 
the  region;  in  the  novel  of  Park  Row  the  verdant  re 
porter  will  be  let  loose  to  wander  about  the  city  at  his 
own  sweet  will  to  secure  "beats"  of  fabulous  importance 
and  "show  up"  iniquitous  bankers  and  statesmen;  and 
in  the  story  of  the  theatre  the  young  debutante  will 
score  an  astounding  success  on  her  first  appearance.  The 


124  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

last-named  type  of  romance  offers  the  widest  opportunity 
to  the  fecund  mind  of  the  maker  of  best-sellers.  The 
heroine  may  in  sudden  and  fortuitous  emergency  play 
the  leading  part  that  she  has  understudied  and  achieve 
such  signal  triumph  that  the  star  falls  upon  her  neck 
with  cries  of  joy  declaring  that  the  ingenue  must  in 
future  play  the  chief  role;  she  may  yield  herself  to 
the  wicked  manager  and  within  six  weeks  find  herself 
transformed  by  the  magic  alchemy  of  his  craft  into  a 
best-drawing  star,  or  she  may  arouse  a  tempest  of  en 
thusiasm  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  appearance  by  the 
inspired  utterance  of  the  line  that  has  ushered  more  than 
one  musical  comedy  queen  into  public  view:  "Here 
come  the  soldiers!" 

Through  these  preposterous  tales  many  sanguine 
young  people  are  lured  from  peaceful  homes  to  worlds 
other  than  their  own,  there  to  meet  the  disillusionment 
that  so  often  follows  on  the  heels  of  inexperience.  Some 
organization  like  the  Sullivan  clan  will  make  short  work 
of  the  callow  reformer;  the  embryo  moulder  of  public 
opinion  will  be  sent  to  report  the  brick-layers'  meeting 
and  will  soon  learn  that  the  practice  of  "getting  some 
thing  on  somebody"  is  frowned  upon  in  reputable  offices ; 
and  all  that  awaits  the  young  actress  in  her  attempt  to 
ascend  the  ladder  is  a  matter  too  painful  for  recital  in 
these  cheerful  pages. 

But  the  Century  did  much  to  foster  another  literary 
evil  that  was  not  interred  with  the  bones  of  that  maga 
zine's  prosperity,  but  is  now  more  flagrant  than  ever. 
It  is  a  school  of  fiction  founded  on  that  idiot's  paean, 
"God's  in  His  heaven;  all's  right  with  the  world,"  and 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  125 

representing  life,  not  as  it  is,  but  as  it  should  be.  This 
school  finds  its  chief  expression  in  those  "happy  end 
ings"  which  are  essential  to  a  best-selling  novel.  When 
a  reader  for  a  publishing  house  takes  up  3,  manuscript 
he  turns  at  once  to  the  last  page  and,  if  he  finds  that 
"Rosamond  with  her  head  buried  on  Reginald's  shoul 
der  and  the  story  of  love,  ever  old,  ever  new,  gladden 
ing  her  ears,  found  the  rest  and  peace  that  had  been  so 
long  denied  her,"  he  goes  back  to  the  beginning,  confi 
dent  that  the  story  contains  at  least  one  element  of 
success. 

To  this  school  of  fiction  we  owe  the  brats  of  the  Polly- 
anna  type,  together  with  many  maudlin  tales  designed 
to  make  the  reader  feel  benevolent  without  spending  a 
cent.  The  best  of  these  is  Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage 
Patch,  which  I  confess  to  have  read  with  moistened  eyes, 
saying  to  myself  as  I  reached  the  end,  "if  I  had  Rocke 
feller's  money  I  would  give  that  woman  all  our  family 
washing." 

This  school  of  fiction  is  only  great  when  measured  by 
its  consumption  of  paper,  but  it  has  not  yet  produced 
anything  equal  in  quality  to  Vanity  Fair,  The  Tale  of 
Tivo  Cities,  The  Man  Without  a  Country,  or  Alphonse 
Daudet's  Siege  of  Berlin,  not  one  of  which  had  an  end 
ing  calculated  to  please  a  publisher.  The  same  spirit  of 
cheery  optimism  prevails  in  our  theatre,  with  the  result 
that  a  really  amusing  comedy  is  often  spoiled  by  a 
maudlin  finish  designed  to  please  an  audience  that  has 
but  little  respect  for  the  verities  of  human  life. 

The  success  of  Puck  led  to  the  starting  of  other 
humorous  publications,  notably  Judge  and  Life,  and  also 


126  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

to  an  increasing  demand  for  comic  paragraphs  in  other 
periodicals.  John  A.  Mitchell  started  Life  in  one  corner 
of  his  studio  at  Twenty-seventh  Street  and  Broadway, 
with  Henry  Guy  Carleton  as  editor,  and  Andrew  Miller, 
hidden  behind  a  screen,  as  business  manager.  Edward 
S.  Martin  occupied  the  same  position  at  the  beginning 
that  he  does  at  the  present  day  and  was  also  financially 
interested  though  he  disposed  of  his  share  a  short  time 
later.  The  success  of  Life  was  due  primarily  to  the  fact 
that  Mitchell  was  a  man  of  high  principle  who  made  his 
integrity  and  sincerity  felt  in  every  number  of  his  publi 
cation,  and  there  is  no  business  in  which  those  qualities 
are  so  valuable  as  in  humorous  journalism.  Moreover 
he  did  not  imitate  Puck  but  blazed  an  entirely  new  trail 
in  black  and  white  illustration,  founding  a  school  of 
which  Charles  Dana  Gibson,  who  did  his  first  work  for 
Lifer  became  and  remained  the  acknowledged  head,  with 
countless  imitators.  We  used  to  call  Life's  pictures 
"Buttericks,"  because  of  their  resemblance  to  pictures  in 
a  fashion  magazine,  but  it  was  the  reflection  of  fashion 
able  life  as  never  before  shown  in  a  comic  paper,  that 
made  this  one  popular  from  the  start.  However,  Carle- 
ton's  "Thompson  Street  Poker  Club"  sketches,  dealing 
with  a  group  of  colored  players,  proved  one  of  the 
earliest  of  Life's  successful  hits. 

The  various  Harper  publications  now  opened  their 
doors  to  the  humorous  writer,  and  many  were  the  poets 
and  jokesmiths  who  availed  themselves  of  this  new  and 
extensive  market.  The  Harpers  paid  on  acceptance  for 
these  offerings  and  there  was  one  bard  of  our  crowd 
who  used  to  put  in  his  verses  at  one  window  and  watch 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  127 

their  course  through  the  glass  partition  as  they  were  read 
and  accepted,  turned  over  to  a  clerk  to  be  entered  and 
passed  from  him  to  the  cashier  who  paid  for  them.  To 
those  behind  the  partition  this  poet  with  his  nose  pressed 
against  the  glass  must  have  looked  like  an  inquisitive  fish 
in  an  aquarium. 

A  good  many  of  us  took  up  this  line  of  work  only  to 
discover  that  it  was  foolish  to  use  up  a  whole  idea  in  a 
single  paragraph  instead  of  padding  it  out  into  something 
longer.  John  Kendrick  Bangs  was  the  most  prolific 
among  us  all  and  William  J.  Henderson  also  contributed 
verse  and  paragraphs.  But  Henderson  could  do  many 
things  before  he  settled  down  to  the  craft  of  musical 
criticism  in  which  he  now  excels.  He  could  play  on  the 
piano  and  compose  music  and  at  one  time  he  was  manag 
ing  editor  of  Puck.  I  have  even  seen  him  in  the  box- 
office  of  his  father's  theatre  and — low  be  it  spoken — I 
have  heard  him  sing  in  comic  opera,  arrayed  in  fancy 
clothes  and  a  plumed  hat.  None  of  us  is  ever  safe  from 
his  own  past 


L° 


CHAPTER  IX 

C~)OKING  back  across  the  intervening  years  to  this 
period  we  see  the  beginnings  of  what  were  destined 
to  become  two  important  markets  for  literary  outputs, 
newspaper  syndicates  and  the  cheap  magazines.  The 
former  was  the  first  to  arrive,  and  according  to  my 
memory,  Allen  Thorndike  Rice  was  the  earliest  of  the 
syndicate  proprietors.  He  conceived  the  idea  of  pur 
chasing  essays  from  the  most  distinguished  pens  in  this 
and  other  countries  and  selling  them  to  newspapers  for 
simultaneous  publication.  That  system,  of  course,  did 
/  not  benefit  the  young  fellows  who  had  yet  to  make  names 
of  commercial  value,  and  it  was  not  until  Irving  Bacheller 
and  S.  S.  McClure  entered  the  field  that  we  began  to 
profit  by  it. 

I  believe  that  it  was  Bacheller  who  followed  Rice  in 
the  syndicate  business  and  one  of  his  first  ventures  was 
a  weekly  letter  signed  by  George  Parsons  Lathrop  and 
to  which  I  contributed  a  share.  The  Bacheller  syndicate 
grew  in  importance  and  in  scope  until  its  founder 
achieved  unexpected  success  with  a  novel  called  Ebcn 
Holden  and  turned  his  attention  to  literature,  disposing 
of  his  profitable  business  to  Mr.  John  Brisbcn  Walker. 
The  ever  venturesome  and  enterprising  McClure  now 
showed  his  hand  in  the  game  and,  like  Rice,  dealt  with 
writers  of  assured  position.  I  met  him  one  day  on  Ann 

128 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Street  with  a  list  of  pawnbrokers  in  his  hand  which  he 
offered  for  my  inspection,  paying  me  the  dubious  com 
pliment  of  thinking  me  an  expert  and  remarking  that  he 
was  going  to  pawn  his  household  goods  and  invest  the 
proceeds  in  a  story  by  Frank  Stockton.  I  was  at  that 
time  on  my  way  to  kite  a  cheque  for  the  furtherance  of 
my  own  business  but  I  paused  to  offer  a  word  of  remon 
strance,  begging  him  not  to  jeopardize  the  bed  in  which 
he  slept  and  the  kitchen  utensils  in  which  his  food  was 
prepared  in  order  to  buy  any  literature  except  my 
own.  The  result  of  my  harangue  was  that  McClure 
tore  up  his  list  of  pawnbrokers  and  went  his  way  to  an 
ultimate  success  that  he  richly  deserved. 

After  this,  syndicates  sprang  up  like  mushrooms — I 
was  interested  in  two  or  three  myself — it  was  a  busi 
ness  that  required  but  little  capital,  but  scarcely  any  of 
those  early  ventures  became  permanent.  McClure  was 
successful,  however,  and  his  magazine  grew  out  of  his 
syndicate  and  its  earlier  numbers  were  made  up  of 
matter  already  printed  in  newspapers. 

The  credit  for  being  the  originator  of  the  ten-cent 
magazine  has  been  claimed  by  three  pioneers,  S.  S. 
McClure,  Frank  A.  Munsey  and  J.  Brisben  Walker,  but 
I  think  it  really  belongs  to  Mr.  Munsey.  Certainly  he 
struck  the  keynote  of  popular  taste  with  remarkable 
accuracy  and  produced  a  publication  that  has  found 
countless  imitators.  Born  and  reared  in  a  Maine  rural 
district,  he  began  life  as  a  telegraph  operator  and  was 
still  following  that  occupation  when  his  first  stories  were 
written.  Meanwhile  he  was  acquiring  a  knowledge  of 
what  the  element,  called  by  Mr.  Lincoln  "the  plain  peo- 


130  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

pie,"  really  wanted  and  it  was  with  this  knowledge  in 
his  head,  some  manuscript  stories  in  his  valise  and  a 
very  slender  capital  in  his  purse,  that  he  came  to  New 
York  to  enter  upon  his  career.  I  think  the  Argosy  was 
his  first  venture  and  Munsey's  Weekly,  now  a  monthly 
and  then  a  comic  publication,  edited  by  John  Kendrick 
Bangs,  his  next.  For  a  time  he  had  hard  sledding  and 
it  was  not  until  the  result  of  his  previous  studies  of  popu 
lar  taste  was  shown  in  Munsey's  Magazine  that  his  real 
success  began.  I  may  add  that  the  years  of  his  struggle 
are  greatly  to  the  credit  of  his  sagacity  and  integrity. 

Munsey's  success  was  based  on  his  keen  comprehen 
sion  of  the  fact  that  people  are  more  interesting  than 
things.  Therefore  he  filled  his  pages  with  portraits  of 
men  and  women  more  or  less  before  the  public,  with 
fiction  dealing  with  human  life,  and  with  comments  on 
literature  and  the  stage.  We  soon  found  that  it  was  im 
possible  to  pay  our  holiday  expenses  by  articles  on  "In 
the  Mists  Above  Mt.  Washington"  or  "  'Mid  the  Danc 
ing  Waves  of  Montauk,"  illustrated  by  snap-shots.  It 
was  not  many  years  before  his  two  publications  were 
yielding  him  an  income  of  nearly  a  million  a  year.  In 
short,  as  a  conductor  of  magazines  Mr.  Munsey  showed 
extraordinary  acumen;  but  when,  in  later  years,  he 
became  a  newspaper  owner — Oh,  my !  Oh,  my !  Oh,  my ! 

There  was  at  this  time  in  New  York  a  moribund  pub 
lication  called  the  American  Magazine  for  which  one 
Valerian  Gribayedoff,  an  illustrator,  had  done  some 
work  and  for  which  he  was  trying  in  vain  to  extort 
payment.  Artist-like  his  thoughts  turned  to  vengeance 
and  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  New  York  World  warning 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  131 

all  artists  and  writers  to  be  wary  in  their  dealings  with 
the  American.  Sometime  after  this  he  was  surprised  by 
a  call  from  the  business  manager  of  the  magazine  and 
at  once  prepared  himself  for  a  row.  To  his  amaze 
ment  the  visitor  handed  him  a  cheque  for  the  amount 
due  him  and  thanked  him  cordially  for  the  letter  of 
warning  printed  in  the  World.  It  seemed  that  it  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  J.  Brisben  Walker,  then  on  the 
look-out  for  an  opportunity  in  the  magazine  business, 
and  he  had  purchased  the  American  with  the  intention 
of  calling  it  the  Cosmopolitan,  under  which  title  it  is 
still  published.  Beginning,  as  had  Munsey,  with  the 
price  of  twenty-five  cents,  he  soon  announced  a  reduc 
tion  to  twelve  and  a  half  cents  and  the  very  next  even 
ing  I  happened  to  encounter  McClure  on  the  Boston 
boat. 

"Did  you  see  what  Walker  is  going  to  do?"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Well,  I  am  going  on  to  Boston  now  to  borrow 
five  thousand  dollars  so  as  to  put  my  magazine  down  to 
ten  cents,"  and  it  was  in  the  cheaper  form  that  both 
monthlies  appeared  almost  simultaneously.  These  three 
magazines  and  their  successors  in  the  field,  notably  the 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  have  proved  of  enormous  impor 
tance,  not  only  in  widening  the  market  for  literary  work 
but  also  in  spreading  a  taste  for  reading  to  every  part 
of  the  country. 

Mr.  George  H.  Lorimer,  the  editor  of  the  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  does  not  prate  about  his  "hundred  per 
cent  Americanism,"  or  style  his  paper  a  "journal  of 
uplift,"  yet  the  wholesome  influence  that  it  carries  into 
the  hearts  of  millions  of  readers  is,  I  am  convinced,  of 


132  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

inestimable  value  to  the  nation.  More  than  any  other 
publication  does  it  reflect  the  spirit  of  that  early  states 
man  who  declared  all  Americans  to  be  free  and  equal, 
for  it  is  as  eagerly  read  by  the  highly  educated  as  by 
those  who  dwell  on  lonely  farms  and  ranches  and  to 
whom  such  a  journal  at  the  price  of  five  cents  is  a  verit 
able  godsend. 

Quite  as  successful  and  even  more  influential  in  its 
own  field  is  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  whose  history  has 
been  written  in  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok, 
an  autobiography  that  reminds  one  of  Hogarth's  por 
trayal  of  the  rise  of  the  "Industrious  Apprentice."  But 
Mr.  Bok  is  singularly  modest  in  his  recital  of  a  life- 
journey  that  began  on  the  bank  of  a  Dutch  canal  and 
proceeded  through  peaceful  Brooklyn  shades  to  the 
"City  of  Brotherly  Love,"  where  triumphant  achieve 
ment  was  attained.  He  tells  us  with  a  charming  lack  of 
reticence  of  his  study  of  the  art  of  publicity  and  of  that 
abounding  faith  in  the  value  of  name  that  has  dominated 
his  career.  Failing  to  secure  a  contribution  from  Mr. 
Gladstone  he  accepted  one  from  Mrs.  Gladstone  and 
discovered  that  it  answered  just  as  well.  But  he  does 
not  tell  us  that  he  not  only  created  a  school  of  periodical 
journalism  but  also  blazed  the  trail  for  every  attempt 
in  that  direction  that  has  followed.  He  might  have  said 
with  perfect  truth  that  he  has  had  no  competitors,  merely 
imitators,  and  that  he  has  thus  impressed  his  unique  in 
dividuality  on  all  American  womanhood  through  the 
medium  of  his  own  journal  and  a  dozen  more  besides. 

The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  is  said  to  rule  the 
world,  but  what  can  we  say  of  him  whose  hand  strokes 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  133 

and  pats  that  cradle-rocking  hand?  So  great  has  been 
his  influence  that  his  autobiography  should  have  been 
called  not  'The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok,"  but 
the  *  'Edward  Bokanization  of  America." 


About  this  time  a  friend  of  mine  wrote  a  book  entitled 
How  to  Win  at  Poker,  for  which  he  received  a  cheque  of 
ample  dimensions  which  he  promptly  cashed  according 
to  long  established  literary  and  artistic  custom.  The 
same  evening  he  sat  in  a  friendly  game  of  draw  and  at 
an  early  hour  the  next  morning  signed  his  name  to  two 
"I  O  U's"  and  departed  with  empty  pockets  to  brood 
over  the  mutability  of  human  affairs.  I  mention  this 
episode  because  it  has  enabled  me  to  fix  the  exact  date 
at  which  I  lost  forever  all  confidence  in  printed  essays 
on  financial  topics.  It  may  be  remembered  that  some 
years  before  this  Mr.  William  R.  Travers  was  asked  if 
he  had  read  Mr.  Henry  Clews'  last  pamphlet  on  finance 
and  made  prompt  and  terse  reply,  "I  hope  so." 

We  might  have  been  bohemians  but  we  did  not  know 
it,  although  we  dined  at  table  d'hotes  in  a  manner  that 
nowadays  imparts  the  true  touch  of  bohemianism  to 
every  one  sufficiently  sophisticated  to  call  the  wine  "red 
ink."  The  professional  bohemian  was  unknown  then 
and  it  was  not  until  years  later  that  he  began  to  perform 
for  the  benefit  of  visitors  from  the  suburbs  and  the 
upper  west  side  as  he  does  to-day  in  the  purlieus  of  Wash 
ington  Square  and  Greenwich  Village.  We  flocked  from 
one  of  these  little  restaurants  to  another  and  were  always 


134  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

quick  to  scent  a  newer  or  a  better  one.  I  recall  one  place 
of  rendezvous  in  Wooster  Street,  kept  by  an  attractive 
young  French  widow  of  winning  address  and  most  dis 
creet  behavior.  Many  of  her  dishes  were  of  her  own 
concoction  and  it  was  perhaps  this  fact  that  won  for  her 
the  regard  of  a  young  artist  to  whom  she  later  became 
engaged.  Forthwith  there  came  from  the  west  the 
artist's  father  with  the  intention  of  inspecting  the  pros 
pective  bride  and  passing  judgment  on  her.  He  arrived 
one  Sunday  morning  and  about  noon  that  day  I  entered 
the  restaurant  and  saw  a  short,  rather  rotund  man  seated 
against  the  wall  sound  asleep.  On  the  table  before  him 
were  the  remains  of  a  breakfast  such  as  few  of  us  ever 
had  the  courage  to  order,  a  meal  that  was  supplemented 
by  the  contents  of  one  or  two  pint  bottles  bearing  labels 
calculated  to  command  the  respect  of  the  connoisseur. 
Madame  appeared  in  her  kitchen  doorway,  glanced  at  the 
sleeper  and  then  smiled  at  me  in  a  manner  that  told  me 
that  the  victory  was  won. 

We  all  drank  a  great  deal  in  those  days,  for  Pro 
hibition  had  not  yet  reared  its  hydrant  head  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  some  of  us  drank  more  than  was  good 
for  us.  Later  years  proved  that  John  Barleycorn  put 
more  than  one  good  man  under  the  ground,  but  never 
theless  social  drinking — we  were  none  of  us  sneak 
drinkers — was  not  without  its  benefits  to  ambitious  young 
souls.  To  this  day  I  feel  grateful  to  many  men,  older 
and  more  experienced  than  myself,  for  the  counsel  and 
encouragement  that  they  used  to  give  me  over  beer  and 
wine-stained  tables  in  and  near  Washington  Square.  I 
am  confident,  too,  that  young  writers  and  artists  of  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  135 

present  day  do  not  enjoy  such  friendly  interest  as  was 
shown  to  me.  Nor  can  I  imagine  colloquies  such  as 
those  that  taught  me  so  much  about  the  trade  of  writ 
ing  taking  place  over  glasses  of  ice-water.  On  the  whole 
I  do  not  regret  the  many  glasses  of  cheering  fluid  that 
passed  my  lips  in  those  happy  days  when  it  was  so  easy 
to  get  it. 

And  with  the  dawn  of  this  decade  there  was  released 
from  its  hiding  place  a  genie  that  had  been  practically 
bottled  up  since  it  had  ceased  to  serve  Barnum — a  genie 
that  was  destined  under  the  name  of  press-agent  to  ex 
ercise  a  tremendous  influence  in  theatrical  affairs,  and 
under  its  more  recent  name  of  publicity  director  to  be 
come  a  misleading  power  in  our  nation. 

I  regard  the  modern  science  of  publicity  as  one  of  the 
great  evils  of  the  day  and  a  distinct  menace  to  the  charm 
and  beauty  of  private  life.  It  has  given  us  a  false  per 
spective  of  life,  caused  us  to  revere  the  unworthy,  and 
thrown  into  the  background  those  persons  of  real  distinc 
tion  who  are  too  proud  to  get  themselves  into  print. 

Few  people  are  aware  of  the  number  of  false  reputa 
tions  that  this  scheme  has  created  and  a  still  smaller 
number  know  how  to  discriminate  between  genuine  fame 
and  cheap  notoriety,  so  closely  do  the  publicity  agents 
imitate  the  former.  I  find  it  a  pleasure  sometimes  to 
think  of  a  few  persons  whom  I  have  known  who  have 
impressed  me  as  far  greater  than  their  renown,  and  it 
is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  personal  modesty  was  a  distin 
guishing  trait  in  each  one  of  them. 

Mary  Anderson  was  the  first  modern  American  star 
to  employ  a  press-agent  whose  duties  were  limited  to  the 


136  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

sending  out  of  brief  paragraphs  designed  to  lessen  the 
work  of  the  dramatic  editor.  Before  long  this  system 
was  elaborated  until  it  reached  a  form  of  press  work 
quite  popular  in  those  simple  days  with  the  theatrical 
profession,  especially  on  the  distaff  side,  namely,  the 
personal  anecdote  in  which  the  talents  or  the  private 
virtues  of  the  star  were  gracefully  exploited.  These 
were  used  chiefly  in  the  out-of-town  papers  and  the 
manager  would  often  order  a  stock  of  them  from  young 
writers  like  myself  before  setting  out  on  his  tour.  They 
were  all  short  and  to  the  point  and  diamond  robberies 
were  tabooed.  A  sample  of  them  that  I  recall  was,  in 
brief,  as  follows:  "A  young  clergyman  recently  de 
nounced  the  modern  stage  in  the  presence  of  a  fashion 
able  company  and  was  surprised  at  the  earnest,  almost 
tearful  eloquence  with  which  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
who  had  previously  remained  modestly  in  the  back 
ground,  defended  the  profession  from  the  charges  made 
against  it.  'Who  is  that  charming  young  lady?'  he  in 
quired  of  his  hostess  when  an  opportunity  was  offered. 
'That/  she  replied,  'is  the  actress  Estelle  Boneset  who 
will  appear  at  the  Academy  of  Music  next  Monday 
night.'  " 

But  the  further  development  of  the  science  was  due 
to  the  methods  introduced  by  the  foreign  stars  who 
began  to  arrive  in  this  country  very  early  in  the  Eighties. 
The  first  of  these  was  Madame  Patti,  whose  tour  was  a 
horrible  example  of  that  which  may  happen  to  any  one 
who  ignores  the  tastes  of  the  American  public,  and  a 
repetition  of  Rachel's  disastrous  season  here.  It  also 
proved  a  boon  to  the  native  impresario  for  under  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  137 

direction  of  Henry  E.  Abbey  the  tide  in  her  fortunes 
changed  and  she  went  home  materially  richer  than  she 
came.  Patti  relied  on  the  fact  that  she  was  not  only  the 
greatest  singer  in  the  world,  but  also  the  one  most  widely 
advertised  and  therefore  in  a  position  to  dispense  with 
the  services  of  both  manager  and  press  agent.  But  her 
business  acumen  began  and  ended  with  her  extraordinary 
aptitude  for  the  making  of  contracts  and  their  merciless 
enforcement.  She  secured  Steinway  Hall,  announced  a 
staggering  scale  of  prices — I  think  the  best  seats  were 
ten  dollars — and  entrusted  the  direction  of  her  affairs 
to  the  needy  Italian  followers  whom  she  placed  in  the 
box-office.  I  attended  her  first  concert — it  is  needless 
to  say  on  free  tickets — and  even  to  my  comparatively 
untrained  perceptions  it  was  evident  that  most  of  the 
audience  had  arrived  by  a  route  similar  to  mine.  The 
seats  directly  about  me  were  occupied  by  the  friends  and 
relatives  of  the  janitor  of  the  building.  In  a  very  few 
days  it  was  announced  that  she  would  appear  under 
Mr.  Abbey's  management. 

Mr.  Abbey  was  in  my  opinion  the  greatest  en 
trepreneur  of  foreign  atractions  of  modern  times  and 
his  direction  of  the  first  tour  of  Sarah  Bernhardt  was 
convincing  proof  of  his  ability.  Bernhardt  herself  had 
long  been  regarded  in  Europe  as  a  complete  mistress 
of  the  art  of  self-advertisement  by  methods  so  closely 
resembling  those  of  one  of  our  countrymen  as  to  gain 
her  the  nickname  of  "Sarah  Barnum."  Long  before  her 
appearance  here,  public  curiosity  had  been  tickled  by 
stories  of  her  attenuated  figure — "an  empty  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  stage  door  of  the  Theatre  Fran^ais  and 


138  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Sarah  Bernhardt  alighted,"  of  the  son  whom  she  called 
her  "petit  accident/'  and  of  the  coffin  in  which  she  slept ; 
consequently  her  first  audience  in  Booth's  Theatre  was 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  remarkable  gatherings  ever 
seen  in  a  New  York  playhouse.  Many  people  came,  as 
they  did  later  in  other  cities,  to  see  if  she  were  really 
as  thin  as  reputed,  if  she  looked  like  the  "bad  woman" 
she  was  said  to  be,  and  also  that  they  might  be  able  to 
say  they  had  seen  her.  On  the  occasion  to  which  I  have 
alluded  she  captivated  her  audience  by  her  superb  art  and 
by  her  exquisite  voice.  That  not  many  of  those  present 
understood  French  was  made  apparent  to  her  in  rather 
startling  fashion  by  a  sudden  rustling  and  flashing  of 
white  leaves  that  occurred  when  the  first  page  of  the 
librettos  were  turned. 

Although  Sarah  Bernhardt's  fame  was  honestly  won 
by  the  exercise  of  her  talents,  she  was  nevertheless  her 
own  press-agent,  and  a  rarely  good  one,  too.  She  was 
one  of  the  few  modern  actresses  who  was  her  own  man 
ager  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word  and  when  she  "worked 
the  press"  at  the  beginning  of  a  new  season,  she  did  it 
with  skill  and  judgment. 

As  an  instance  of  this  I  recall  her  arrival  in  this 
country  after  an  absence  of  a  few  years  and  the  frank 
manner  in  which  she  drew  attention  to  her  age.  When 
the  reporters  greeted  her  on  the  deck  of  the  incoming 
steamer  she  took  each  one  by  the  hand  saying:  "What 
do  you  think?  This  kind  Captain  Chose  gave  me  a 
dinner  last  night  because  it  was  my  sixty-fifth  birthday. 
I  hope  you  don't  think  I  am  too  old  for  my  last  Ameri 
can  tour!" 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  139 

Almost  any  other  actress  would  have  ignored  the  sub 
ject  of  passing  years  or  else  claimed  an  age  less  than 
her  own,  but  Bernhardt  knew  what  she  was  doing  when 
she  gave  the  widest  publicity  to  her  sixty-five  years. 
Wherever  she  appeared  people  said  how  young  she 
looked  and  that  was  precisely  the  effect  she  desired  to 
make.  If  she  had  claimed  to  be  forty  they  would  have 
said  how  old  she  looked. 

Henry  Irving's  methods  were  entirely  different  from 
hers.  He  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  acting  off  the  stage 
as  well  as  on  and  in  both  phases  of  his  art  to  be  supreme. 
Not  even  his  mannerisms,  of  which  the  unthinking  spoke 
so  frequently,  could  dim  the  lustre  of  his  legitimate  fame. 
After  all,  we  have  no  evidence  that  Matthias  did  not 
drag  one  leg  after  another  or  that  Louis  XI  did  not  speak 
with  a  drawl.  Irving's  art  wiped  out  these  minor  defects 
and  as  a  producer,  he  raised  the  entire  standard  of  the 
atrical  representation  in  this  country  and  left  us  under 
permanent  obligation  to  him.  Moreover  he  always  gave 
the  public  the  very  best  that  was  in  him  and  kept  his 
company  up  to  the  mark  in  every  particular.  There  was 
no  difference  between  the  performance  given  in  Broad 
way  and  that  in  one  of  the  smaller  towns. 

Mr.  Irving  excelled  also  in  the  manifold  arts  that 
compel  public  interest,  and  to  these  he  added  that  which 
awakens  profound  respect.  His  pose  was  that  of  a 
kindly,  dignified,  somewhat  mysterious  and  thoroughly 
intellectual  personage.  His  press  work — if  it  may  so  be 
called — was  as  much  above  that  to  which  we  were  then 
accustomed  as  was  his  art  above  his  mannerisms,  and  so 
adroitly  administered  to  our  gullible  public  that  we  failed 


140  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

to  detect  its  purpose.  Studied  through  the  clearer  spec 
tacles  of  hindsight,  it  seems  to  me  that  his  first  attempt 
to  pave  the  way  for  his  American  tour  was  made  when 
Edwin  Booth  failed  to  interest  London  audiences.  Irving 
stepped  forward  at  once,  and  with  a  whole-souled  zeal 
to  befriend  a  fellow  artist,  arranged  for  their  joint  ap 
pearance  on  the  Lyceum  stage  and  for  some  time  they 
played  together  in  apparent  brotherly  amity.  But  that 
stage  was  controlled  by  Irving  himself  and  those  familiar 
with  the  possibilities  open  to  an  actor  who  is  also  his 
own  stage  manager  will  readily  believe  that  in  this  case 
the  Englishman  was  no  sufferer.  Booth,  although  not  of 
a  suspicious  nature,  soon  realized  that  he  had  fallen 
into  a  sort  of  trap,  but  to  the  American  public,  Irving 
was  seen  in  the  light  of  one  anxious  to  show  his  good 
will  to  a  colleague  in  need  of  help.  Although  chafing 
under  the  position  in  which  he  had  been  placed,  Booth 
could  do  nothing  but  acquiesce. 

It  was,  therefore,  as  a  great  artist  and  a  dominant 
intellectual  force  in  the  English  theatre,  that  Irving  came 
to  this  country  while  the  halo  of  his  generous  treatment 
of  America's  favorite  player  still  clung  to  his  brow.  Too 
great  an  artist  to  ignore  the  value  of  competent  support 
and  adequate  surroundings,  he  brought  with  him  Miss 
Ellen  Terry,  Mr.  George  Wenman  and  an  admirable 
company  together  with  his  own  scenery  and  costumes, 
and  a  staff  that  included  several  men  of  letters  who  were 
quite  competent  to  record  his  triumphs  in  the  English 
newspapers.  His  manager  was  Bram  Stoker,  an  Irish 
man  of  great  suavity  and  even  greater  ability. 

Disdaining  the  method  common  among  inferior  actors 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  141 

of  displaying  himself  at  the  expense  of  his  associates,  he 
encouraged  them  to  do  their  most  effective  work  in  his 
support,  the  result  being  that  the  Irving  troupe  soon 
gained  a  high  reputation  for  their  well  balanced  perform 
ances.  The  fact  that  he  must  have  known  that  Miss 
Terry  was  really  the  drawing  card  of  his  entertainments 
did  not  arouse  his  jealousy  to  the  point  of  trying  to 
"smother"  her  work  to  the  advantage  of  his  own,  after 
a  fashion  all  too  common  among  inferior  stars.  On  the 
contrary  he  made  the  best  use  possible  of  her  gifts, 
though  I  do  not  recall  any  play  in  which  she  could  demon 
strate  her  greater  popularity  by  appearing  without  him. 

Apart  from  their  artistic  excellence  Irving's  tours  in 
this  country  proved  a  veritable  commercial  triumph.  His 
motto,  like  that  of  the  box-office  manager,  was  "give 
the  people  what  they  want,"  but  he  paid  us  the  supreme 
compliment  of  assuming  that  we  wanted  the  best  that 
in  him  lay  and  he  gave  it  to  us  in  full  measure  and 
without  regard  to  cost,  careful,  the  while,  so  to  impress 
the  public  mind  with  his  outlay  that  no  one  resented 
the  high  price  of  his  tickets.  His  attitude  toward  us 
was  that  of  one  generously  concerned  with  the  American 
drama  and  its  people.  In  his  speeches  and  interviews 
he  paid  wordy  tribute  to  the  American  stage  and  pre 
dicted  for  it  a  glorious  future. 

"I  look  to  see  the  time  when  your  drama  will  over 
shadow  that  of  all  other  countries.  With  your  varied 
population,  with  the  culture  and  refinement  of  your  great 
cities,  the  ruddy  vigor  of  the  far  west  you  have  no  need 
to  draw  inspiration  from  foreign  sources.  With  such 
noble  backgrounds  as  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  vast 


142  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

level  prairies  and  the  broad  Mississippi  rolling  to  the 
sea  you  have  the  mise  en  scdne  for  a  hundred  great  virile 
dramas  that  shall  deal  with  the  actual  life  and  the  ele 
mentary  passions  of  the  most  progressive  nation  on 
earth.  You  have  already  among  you  many  noble 
dramatists  whose  work  I  hope  to  produce  at  some  not 
far  distant  date  and  I  have  been  surprised  more  than 
once  at  the  high  quality  of  some  of  the  American  plays 
that  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  witness." 

All  of  this  and  much  like  it  was  eagerly  swallowed  by 
a  public  that  has  always  liked  to  have  its  pills  of  informa 
tion  sugar-coated.  From  time  to  time  Mr.  Irving  went 
further  than  this  and  would  say  to  his  manager,  "Bram, 
I  think  it  is  time  to  purchase  another  American  play. 
Whose  turn  is  it  now?"  And  straightway  would  appear 
the  announcement  that  the  distinguished  English  actor 
had  been  so  deeply  impressed  by  the  manuscript  sub 
mitted  to  him  by  somebody,  not  infrequently  a  critic,  that 
he  had  purchased  the  rights  for  this  country  and  England 
and  her  dependencies  with  the  intention  of  producing  it 
next  season.  And  that  would  be  the  last  ever  heard  of 
this  manuscript  that  had  impressed  him  so  profoundly. 

Unlike  more  recent  British  visitors  to  our  shores,  Irv 
ing  showed  no  disposition  to  accept  generous  hospitality 
without  making  equally  generous  return.  He  seldom 
appeared  in  any  large  city  without  entertaining  the 
friends  whom  he  made  there,  and  he  thought  nothing  of 
going  direct  from  the  stage  to  the  supper  room  after  his 
performance  and  remaining  there  an  interested  and  inter 
esting  talker,  until  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  His 
physical  endurance  was  a  marvel  to  those  who  knew  him. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  14S 

On  one  occasion,  I  think  it  was  between  his  first  and 
second  tours,  he  crossed  the  ocean  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  giving  a  great  and  costly  dinner  to  his  friends. 

Another  example  of  shrewd  and  convincing  press 
work  that  must  be  credited  to  an  alien  source  was  the 
American  tour  of  Oscar  Wilde,  the  ostensible  purpose 
of  which  was  to  lecture  on  the  various  forms  of  astheti- 
cism,  which  he  then  affected,  but  which  was  in  reality 
projected  by  D'Oyley  Carte  to  pave  the  way  for  the 
production  of  Patience.  Wilde  exhibited  himself  in 
knickerbockers  and  with  a  sunflower  in  his  buttonhole,  and 
wherever  he  went  the  local  "intelligentsia" — they  were 
called  then  by  another  name — came  in  crowds  to  see  and 
hear  him.  The  result  of  this  tour  was  that  he  went  back 
to  England  with  well-lined  pockets,  leaving  behind  him 
a  public  educated  up  to  the  point  of  understanding  Gil 
bert's  exquisite  satire. 

But  behind  this  pose  lurked  many  admirable  qualities. 
William  Henderson,  the  manager  of  the  Standard 
Theatre,  at  which  the  opera  was  to  be  given,  invited 
Wilde  to  visit  him  at  his  Long  Branch  home,  and  his  son 
told  me  that  the  family  looked  forward  with  dismay 
to  entertaining  a  person  whom  they  regarded  as  little 
better  than  a  freak.  Greatly  to  their  surprise  they  found 
him  a  most  agreeable  and  witty  guest  who  played  a  good 
game  of  tennis  and,  discarding  all  affectation,  made  him 
self  distinctly  agreeable  in  the  home  circle.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  Wilde's  tour,  which  excited  much 
ridicule,  was  a  case  of  "who  laughs  last,  laughs  best." 


CHAPTER  X 

A  YOUNG  man  who  had  the  keen  showman's  instinct 
and  a  native  flair  for  publicity  was  Steve  Brodie, 
whom  I  first  knew  when  he  was  plying  his  trade  as  a 
bootblack.  Immediately  after  the  completion  of  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge  certain  hare-brained  individuals  tried 
to  attract  attention  to  themselves  by  leaping  from  it  and 
each  of  these  attempts  ended  tragically.  Brodie  was  at 
this  time  selling  newspapers  and  although  he  could  not 
write  at  all  and  could  only  read  the  captions,  he  had  a 
shrewd  understanding  of  the  power  of  newspaper  fame 
and  rightly  considered  that  he  who  first  leaped  from  the 
Bridge  and  lived  to  tell  the  tale  would  acquire  a  renown 
which  could  be  turned  to  profitable  account.  Therefore 
he  interested  an  east  side  liquor  dealer  named  Moritz 
Herzberg  in  his  desperate  venture  and  the  latter  agreed 
to  back  him  in  a  Bowery  liquor  saloon  should  he  survive 
the  jump.  He  did  survive,  and  an  appreciative  press 
bestowed  upon  him  a  degree  of  publicity  that  was  far 
greater  than  he  had  expected.  Almost  before  his  clothes 
were  dry  he  was  standing  behind  his  bar  taking  in  money, 
and  his  business  continued  to  thrive  until  he  had  amassed 
a  comfortable  fortune.  Meanwhile  he  kept  alive  interest 
in  himself  by  various  exploits  of  a  kind  known  in  Park- 
Row  as  "good  news  stories,"  but  at  last,  on  a  certain 
first  of  April,  he  circulated  news  of  his  own  death,  re- 

144 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  145 

appearing  in  person  the  next  day  to  deny  it.  After  this 
the  editors  of  the  New  York  newspapers  notified  him  that 
his  name  would  not  be  printed  again  until  he  really  was 
dead  and  his  last  days  were  spent  under  the  shadow  of 
distasteful  obscurity. 

It  was  about  the  time  of  Steve  Brodie's  sudden  rise 
into  fame  that  I  was  introduced  to  a  seedy  individual 
of  melancholy  aspect  who  told  me  that  he  was  "an  in 
ventor  of  uprights"  and  then  proceeded  to  explain  this, 
to  me,  novel  occupation.  I  did  not  realize  it  then  but  this 
sombre  character  was  the  pioneer  of  what  has  since  be 
come  a  great  profession  for  he  was  one  of  the  first  to 
comprehend  and  trade  profitably  on  the  personal  vanity 
that  aspires  to  undeserved  fame.  His  method  was  quite 
simple.  He  wrote  a  panegyric  of  the  sort  that  might  be 
applied  to  almost  any  vain  and  stupid  man  and  began 
oomewhat  in  this  fashion :  "Among  the  upright  citizens 
of  the  metropolis  are  more  than  one  who  have  been  pre 
vented  by  modesty  from  taking  that  position  in  the  public 
eye  to  which  their  character  and  abilities  entitled  them. 

Such  an  one  is "  and  here  he  would  leave  a  blank 

to  be  filled  in  with  the  name  of  any  one  ass  enough  to 
pay  for  the  printing  of  this  eulogy  in  some  starving 
sheet. 

His  clients  or  victims  were  termed  "uprights"  in  the 
lexicon  of  an  industry  which  was  then  rapidly  growing 
and  he  who  succeeded  in  instilling  in  the  veins  of  a  new 
victim  the  poison  of  a  thirst  for  notoriety  was  said  to 
"invent  him." 

I  talked  with  this  sad  man  long  and  earnestly  and 
learned  that  the  profession  of  what  I  may  term  "up- 


14(5  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

right"  was  made  up  of  inventors  and  solicitors  and 
that  the  latter  called  upon  business  and  professional  men 
in  their  offices  and  with  scarcely  a  word  of  introduction 
read  aloud  in  impressive  tones  the  panegyric  prepared 
for  the  inventor.  So  entrancing  was  the  sound  of  these 
rounded  periods  that  no  one  whose  attention  was  once 
engaged  ever  lost  interest  until  the  final  word.  It  was 
then  comparatively  easy  to  obtain  his  order  for  so  many 
hundred  copies  of  the  paper  in  which  it  was  to  be  printed. 

I  was  almost  startled  when  this  man  told  me  the  names 
of  the  various  citizens  whom  he  had  transformed  into 
"uprights"  and  once  enmeshed  in  this  class  there  seemed 
to  be  no  escape.  Cyrus  W.  Field  was  an  "upright" 
whose  thirst  for  publicity  was  never  fully  quenched  and 
I  know  of  one  occasion  when  a  solicitor  called  at  his 
house  during  an  evening  party,  beckoned  Field  into  the 
hall  and  there  read  to  him  a  most  fulsome  essay  in  praise 
of  his  character  and  achievements,  to  which  the  creator 
of  the  Atlantic  Cable  listened  with  the  delight  of  a  child, 
and  for  which  he  paid  liberally. 

An  inventor  and  solicitor  of  "uprights"  of  remarkable 
ability  and  a  positive  genius  in  discovering  wellsprings 
of  latent  human  vanity  and  successfully  preying  upon 
them  was  E.  Campbell  Allison,  a  native  of  Uniontown, 
Pennsylvania,  and  the  possessor  of  a  colossal  nerve. 
Allison  lived  by  extracting  small  sums  of  money  from 
all  sorts  of  persons  under  all  sorts  of  pretexts  and  his 
exploits  furnished  his  acquaintances  with  no  small  amuse 
ment.  With  loftier  ambitions  he  might  have  taken  rank 
among  the  leading  swindlers  of  the  town,  but  he  was 
content  with  small  returns  and  was  enough  of  an  artist 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  147 

to  enjoy  his  work  for  its  own  sake.  One  of  his  methods 
for  instilling  the  germs  of  uprightness  in  a  prospective 
victim  of  the  substantial  sort  was  to  inform  him  that 
there  was  a  movement  on  foot  to  nominate  him  for  the 
mayoralty,  and  it  was  amazing  to  see  how  many  "promi 
nent  citizens"  were  caught  in  this  trap. 

Allison  crowned  his  career  with  one  remarkable  achieve 
ment.  He  went  to  London — heaven  alone  knows  how  he 
secured  the  money — with  the  intention  of  introducing 
the  "upright"  business  in  that  metropolis,  but  the  Britons 
failed  to  nibble  at  his  bait,  although  he  actually  started 
a  weekly  paper  for  their  special  benefit.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  a  committee  headed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joseph 
Pulitzer  visited  England  for  the  purpose  of  presenting 
to  Mr.  Gladstone  a  silver  testimonial  for  which  the 
readers  of  the  World  had  contributed.  Allison  followed 
them  down  to  Hawarden  and  by  ostentatiously  lending 
aid  to  the  photographer,  who  was  burdened  with  his 
paraphernalia,  managed  to  gain  entrance  to  the  grounds. 
When  a  group  consisting  of  the  Pulitzers,  Gladstones 
and  one  or  two  distinguished  guests,  assembled  to  be 
photographed,  Allison  stationed  himself  behind  a  tree 
and  the  moment  the  camera  was  adjusted,  darted  out 
and  placed  himself  in  a  conspicuous  position  just  behind 
the  unsuspecting  statesman.  His  presence  having  been 
discovered  he  was  ejected  from  the  scene  and  another 
picture  taken.  He  secured  a  negative  of  the  original, 
however,  had  several  copies  printed  on  stiff  cardboard 
and  these  portraits  served  him  as  a  means  of  livelihood 
to  the  end  of  his  days. 

He  was  absolutely  broke  at  this  time  and  without  the 


148  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

means  of  returning  to  New  York,  but  the  Phoenix  Park 
tragedy  was  filling  the  columns  of  the  newspapers  and 
he  went  to  the  office  of  the  London  Times  and  re 
lated  a  circumstantial  conversation  that  he  had  over 
heard  in  a  railway  carriage  between  two  men,  whose 
appearance  he  described  with  a  detail  that  was  so  con 
vincing,  that  he  was  paid  fifty  pounds  for  the  fable  and 
was  thus  able  to  embark  on  the  next  steamer. 

The  Gladstone  photograph  was  so  large  that  he  had 
to  have  a  special  pocket  made  in  his  coat  to  contain  it 
and  he  employed  it  in  this  fashion.  He  had  great  skill 
in  the  art  of  making  acquaintance  with  strangers  and 
was  an  adept  in  picking  out  gullible  ones  on  whom  he 
always  made  a  favorable  impression.  These  he  would 
entertain  with  accounts  of  his  visit  abroad,  would  lead 
the  conversation  to  amateur  photography  and  remark 
that  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  finest  gentleman  he  had 
ever  met,  found  in  that  art  his  favorite  diversion. 

"The  Prince  came  down  to  the  Gladstones  when  I 
was  stopping  there,  along  with  the  Pulitzers  and  in 
sisted  upon  taking  a  picture  of  us  all  out  on  the  lawn. 
It  was  one  of  the  best  pictures  you  ever  saw;  he  ought 
to  be  a  professional." 

About  this  time  the  gullible  one  would  say  to  himself 
with  the  cunning  of  his  kind,  "I  wonder  if  this  fellow 
takes  me  for  a  fool?" 

Then  Allison  would  continue,  "By  the  way,  I  think 
I've  got  one  of  those  pictures  with  me  now,"  and  in  a 
moment  the  victim  would  be  gazing  with  amazement  at 
what  seemed  to  him  a  complete  confirmation  of  the 
other's  tale.  There  before  his  eyes  were  the  unmistak- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  149 

able  likenesses  of  Gladstone,  Pulitzer  and  the  bland  and 
affable  stranger  across  the  table  from  him.  A  moment 
of  weakness  would  follow  leaving  him  vulnerable  to  an 
assault  on  his  pocketbook. 

From  that  day  to  this,  newspaper  puffery  has  had 
but  scant  appeal  for  me.  When  I  read  one  of  the  in 
teresting  anecdotes  of  authors  that  the  publishers  are 
so  glad  to  supply,  I  think  of  the  personal  anecdotes  that 
I  used  to  write,  and  when  I  see  an  eulogy  of  some 
obscure  or  worthless  citizen,  I  know  he  is  not  the  great 
man  that  printer's  ink  would  make  him  but  merely  a 
vain  "upright"  paying  for  his  renown. 

Publicity  has  even  become  the  favorite  hand  maiden 
of  the  book  publishing  trade,  where  it  reveals  itself  in 
personal  anecdotes  of  authors  and  in  banquets  given  in 
their  honor.  As  a  giver  of  dinners  in  which  gracious 
hospitality  and  the  main  chance  were  deftly  blended, 
Colonel  Harvey,  now  the  United  States  Ambassador 
to  Great  Britain,  was  without  a  peer,  and  in  the  Mark 
Twain  banquet  his  talents  rose  to  the  height  of  genius, 
surpassing  even  the  repeated  efforts  of  Sir  Thomas  Lip- 
ton  to  stimulate  the  tea  and  jam  trade  by  the  transfusion 
of  "sporting  blood"  into  its  veins. 

The  Mark  Twain  dinner  bore  on  its  face  the  aspect 
of  a  spontaneous  tribute  on  the  part  of  the  profession 
of  letters  to  a  fellow  member  of  the  craft  who  well  de 
served  the  honor,  and  it  was  by  fortuitous  circumstance 
that  its  occurrence  was  coincident  with  the  issue  of  the 
new  and  complete  edition  of  his  writings.  Invitations 
were  sent,  not  only  to  authors  of  the  first  rank,  but  also 
to  scores  of  lesser  note;  nor  were  they  confined  to  resi- 


150  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

dents  of  Manhattan  or  to  those  on  the  Harper  list.  So 
generous  and  far-reaching  was  the  Colonel's  hospitality 
that  in  the  company  gathered  about  his  board,  Scribner 
authors  sat  cheek  by  jowl  with  those  culled  from  the 
Dodd-Mead  and  Appleton  lists;  dialect  experts  from 
every  corner  of  the  land  made  furtive  studies  of  the 
urban  vernacular,  and  gray-haired  Houghton-Mifflinites 
raised  their  glasses  in  courteous  salute  to  poetesses  from 
mid-western  and  New  England  towns.  Not  since  round- 
eyed  wonder-seekers  looked  through  the  cage-bars  at 
Barnum's  "Happy  Family"  had  such  a  varied  assembly 
been  seen  in  perfect  amity.  From  his  place  in  the  exact 
centre  of  the  principal  table  and  with  the  guest  of  honor  at 
his  right  hand  Colonel  Harvey  viewed  the  scene  through 
the  first  pair  of  horn  spectacles  ever  seen  in  the  publish 
ing  trade,  while  his  heart  swelled  with  pride  at  the 
thought  that  none  was  present  save  for  a  useful  purpose. 
And  every  one  of  the  diners  earned  more  than  the 
salt  to  his  or  her  porridge.  The  names  of  the  distin 
guished  authors  gave  lustre  to  the  newspaper  accounts  of 
the  banquet;  the  grizzled  Houghton-Mifflinites  returned 
to  Boston  and  spread  glad  tidings  of  the  event  through 
that  book-reading  town;  and  even  more  valuable  results 
were  obtained  from  writers  of  feebler  renown  who  had 
made  the  journey,  at  their  own  cost,  from  remote  regions. 
Civic  pride,  a  negligible  quantity  in  New  York,  grows 
stronger  and  stronger  as  we  pass  Rah  way  in  our  journey 
toward  the  setting  sun,  and  the  small  town  poetess  of 
Iowa  was  sure  to  have  the  fact  that  she  had  been  bidden 
to  the  great  banquet  chronicled  in  large  type  in  all  the 
county  papers.  Like  publicity  would  be  given  to  her 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  151 

departure  for  New  York  and  on  her  return  she  would 
be  interviewed  at  great  length.  For  weeks  the  name 
of  Mark  Twain  and  the  titles  of  his  best  known  books 
would  be  kept  conspicuously  before  the  public  of  many 
territories  and  it  was  during  this  period  that  the  largest 
sales  were  effected. 

Such  masterly  achievements  as  this  confirm  my  belief 
that  we  are,  as  many  learned  philosophers  have  declared, 
living  in  a  commercial  age  and  I  commend  them  to  the 
attention  of  whatever  publishing  house  may  have  the 
good  fortune  to  print  these  simple  memoirs  of  a  useful 
life.  Nor  am  I  averse  to  the  "personal  anecdote"  method 
of  exploitation  provided  I  profit  by  it.  Therefore  if 
my  publishers  believe — in  their  trade,  to  believe  is  to 
know — that  by  chronicling  the  fact  that  I  once  played 
chess  with  another  writer,  of  course  on  their  list,  and 
lost  the  game,  or  that  my  great-uncle  was  the  first  man 
in  Schoharie  County  to  die  of  the  mumps,  by  all  means 
let  them  do  their  worst. 

In  the  early  Eighties  my  work  as  a  dramatic  writer 
led  me  to  the  Thalia  Theatre,  where  excellent  perform 
ances  were  given  in  German  under  the  management  of 
Carl  Herrmann.  The  Thalia,  which  had  enjoyed  a  long 
and  distinguished  history  as  the  Bowery  Theatre,  where 
the  greatest  English-speaking  actors  had  appeared,  was 
now  catering  to  the  German  population  and  the  region 
itself  had  a  strong  German  flavor.  Directly  over  the 
way  was  the  Windsor,  the  first  of  what  might  be  called 
the  "neighborhood  houses"  of  the  sort  now  found  on 
the  "subway  circuit,"  by  which  I  mean  theatres  in  which 
pieces  that  had  had  their  run  on  Broadway  were  given 


152  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

at  reduced  prices.  Originally  the  Stadt  Theatre,  it  had 
introduced  many  fine  German  artists  to  New  York  and 
it  was  here  that  Wachtel,  the  tenor  of  "high  C"  reputa 
tion — he  introduced  that  note  with  sensational  results 
into  "Di  quella  pira"  in  II  Trovatore — was  discovered 
by  Mapleson  and  engaged  for  the  Academy  of  Music. 

The  Thalia  was  now  introducing  many  German  oper 
ettas  and  it  was  a  source  of  supply  to  Mr.  Daly,  so  it 
occurred  to  me  that  by  judicious  press  work  American 
as  well  as  German  playgoers  could  be  attracted.  I  ap 
plied  for  the  position  of  press-agent  and  during  two 
seasons  combined  the  duties  of  that  office  with  my  other 
work.  It  was  a  useful  and  interesting  experience  which 
I  always  recall  with  pleasure.  Carl  Herrmann,  an  ex- 
officer  of  the  Austrian  service,  who  had  come  to  this 
country  after  killing  his  superior  officer  in  a  duel,  was 
manager  of  the  house,  and  Heinrich  Conreid,  a  graduate 
of  the  famous  company  maintained  by  the  Duke  of 
Saxe-Meiningen,  was  the  stage-manager  and  it  was  I 
who  gave  him  his  earliest  notoriety.  I  can  truthfully 
say  that  my  services  were  valuable,  for  English-speaking 
playgoers  soon  began  to  flock  to  the  theatre  and  when 
The  Merry  War  was  produced  at  the  close  of  my  first 
season  it  ran  a  whole  month  to  large  business  and  even 
disgusted  many  of  the  regular  patrons  who  desired 
frequent  changes  of  bill. 

I  began  my  labors  by  exploiting  Sardou's  Divorgons, 
given  here  for  the  first  time  in  New  York  with  that 
admirable  comedian,  Adolf  Link,  who  is  still  appearing 
on  the  English-speaking  stage,  as  the  waiter.  The  star 
or  "guest"  of  the  company  was  Kathi  Schratt,  who 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  153 

afterward  became  widely  known  as  the  friend  of  the 
Emperor  Francis  Joseph  and  whose  death  followed 
shortly  after  his  own.  She  was  by  far  the  finest 
Cyprienne  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  have  always  tried 
to  see  the  play  when  it  was  produced  elsewhere.  Chau- 
mont,  who,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  created  the  part  in 
Paris,  played  it  like  a  sophisticated — that  is  rather  a 
mild  term — woman  of  the  world  but  Kathi  Schratt  was 
the  married  ingenue  that  Sardou  had  in  mind. 

Another  famous  Thalia  actress  was  Marie  Geistinger 
of  marvelous  versatility,  her  repertoire  ranging  from 
Lady  Macbeth  to  La  Fille  dc  Madame  Angot.  Still 
another  was  Josie  Gallmeyer,  a  sort  of  German  May 
Irwin,  and  the  idol  of  Vienna.  On  one  occasion  while 
appearing  in  Vienna  in  "Fatinitza,"  Madame  Gallmeyer 
gave  such  offense  to  the  Empress  who  was  seated  in  her 
box  that  her  manager  deemed  it  prudent  for  her  to  retire 
for  a  time,  and  accordingly  she  went  to  Berlin  whither 
her  great  reputation  had  already  preceded  her.  She  was 
greeted  by  an  enormous  audience  that  was  cold  and 
critical,  and  in  despair  at  her  inability  to  rouse  them,  she 
skipped  down  the  stage  singing  an  improvised  couplet  be 
ginning  "Du  bist  vurriickt,  mein  Kind,  etc.,"  which, 
freely  translated  is  "You  are  a  fool,  my  child,  to  go  to 
Berlin;  where  the  cranks  are  you  do  not  belong."  These 
lines  were  echoed  far  and  near  and  it  is  assumed  to  this 
day  that  they  were  original  with  the  part. 

Jennie  Stubel  was  the  star  of  the  operettas  and  it 
was  her  sister  who  was  the  companion  of  the  Austrian 
archduke  when  he  renounced  the  privileges  of  his  rank 
and  disappeared  under  the  name  of  John  Orth. 


154  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

But  the  actor  whom  I  came  to  know  the  best  and  whose 
work  made  the  deepest  impression  on  me  was  Ludwig 
Barnay,  a  Hungarian  of  splendid  appearance  and  by  far 
the  greatest  Mark  Antony  that  I  have  ever  seen.  Of 
his  performance  of  this  role  I  shall  have  something  to 
say  in  a  later  chapter. 

Another  player  whom  I  shall  never  forget  was  the 
comedian  Gustav  Adolphi  who  later  graduated  to  the 
American  stage  and  made  a  great  hit  as  the  tulip-vendor 
in  The  Merry  War.  Adolphi  had  been  an  enormous 
favorite  and  money-maker  in  Europe,  but  his  passion 
for  gambling  proved  his  ruin.  The  last  I  heard  of  him 
he  was  peddling  maps  for  a  living. 

Many  cu:toms  that  seemed  strange  to  me  prevailed 
in  the  German  Theatre.  The  Thalia's  location  was  ex 
cellent  for  it  was  next  door  to  the  Atlantic  Garden  and 
it  is  a  well  known  fact  that  no  German  playhouse  can 
exist  in  New  York  that  is  not  within  convenient  distance 
of  a  first-class  beer  saloon.  A  clause  in  its  lease  stipu 
lated  that  no  English  word  should  be  spoken  on  its  stage. 
Strict  rules  regulated  rehearsal  as  well  as  performance, 
and  during  the  former  the  director  was  not  allowed  to 
give  orders  or  suggestions  to  any  of  the  principals  ex 
cept  in  a  whisper  while  in  the  presence  of  the  chorus. 
A  lapse  of  five  years  in  the  action  of  the  play  compelled 
every  actor  to  make  up  his  face  anew,  then  show  himself 
to  the  stage  manager  before  appearing  on  the  scene. 
The  difference  between  the  German  stage  and  our  own 
is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  the  official  known  here  as 
the  call-boy  is  the  librarian  of  a  German  theatre. 

The  proximity  of  a  beer  garden  or  saloon  is  essential 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  155 

to  success  because  the  Teutonic  theatregoer  does  not  visit 
such  a  resort  for  the  purpose  of  getting  drunk  but  to 
"philosophieren"  with  his  friends  over  the  play  they  have 
witnessed.  For  while  the  American  is  satisfied  if  he 
has  been  entertained  by  a  performance,  the  German  de 
mands  also  something  to  take  away  with  him  for  future 
mental  digestion.  Amberg  knew  well  what  he  was  doing 
when  he  built  what  is  now  the  Irving  Place  Theatre 
within  half  a  block  of  Likhow's  Restaurant  and  right 
round  the  corner  from  the  office  of  the  open-handed 
William  Steinway. 

My  duties  as  a  Thalia  press-agent  were  neither  diffi 
cult  nor  onerous,  for,  as  very  few  of  the  critics  under 
stood  German,  they  were  quite  ready  to  accept  my  assur 
ances  that  everything  on  the  stage  was  as  it  should  be, 
and  there  were  even  those  who  saved  themselves  trouble 
by  printing  the  notices  that  I  wrote  for  them.  Within 
the  walls  of  the  theatre  I  acquired  distinct  vogue  as  a 
person  of  supreme  importance,  for  while  actors  and 
others  were  excluded  I  could  always  gain  admittance 
to  the  managerial  offices,  even  when  such  delicate  transac 
tions  as  borrowing  more  money  from  the  Fleischmanns 
were  in  progress.  But  I  was  admitted,  not  because  I 
was  important,  but  because  I  did  not  understand  Ger 
man,  and  was  therefore  regarded  as  worthy  of  no  more 
consideration  than  the  house  cat. 

On  first  nights  it  was  my  custom  to  visit  the  avant- 
sctne  during  the  performance  and  make  my  way  to  the 
property  room  where  the  master  minds  of  the  stage 
were  always  assembled  anxiously  awaiting  news  from 
the  front.  How  well  do  I  remember  that  vast  stage, 


156  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  in  depth,  with  the  players 
awaiting  their  cues  in  the  wings,  silent  under  the  menacing 
eyes  of  Conried;  the  prompter,  looking  out  from  her 
hood  in  the  centre;  a  tray  of  gilded  wooden  goblets 
lying  ready  for  use;  the  wardroom  hung  with  costumes 
by  Sophie  Klein  and,  most  vividly  of  all,  the  property 
room.  Beneath  the  stage  was  a  great  chamber  to  which 
the  musicians  were  wont  to  retire  for  their  evening  game 
of  poker,  and  Barnay,  who  understood  English,  was 
greatly  flattered  once  when  his  performance  of  King 
Lear  was  punctuated  by  exclamations  of  "That's  good!" 
that  came  from  some  mysterious  source. 

The  property  room  was  filled  with  furniture  and  ac 
coutrements  designed  to  represent  every  age  and  dime 
from  the  terrible  fittings  used  in  the  modern  German 
play,  to  the  stands  of  arms  employed  in  Coriolamts.  My 
reception  at  the  hands  of  the  master  minds  of  the  avant- 
scene-  was  always  cordially  respectful,  for  I  was  re 
garded  as  the  connecting  link  between  their  little  world 
and  that  of  the  powerful  American  press.  Seated  on 
great  Caesar's  bier  and  refreshing  myself  from  a  frothy 
tankard,  I  would  respond  to  the  queries  put  to  me  through 
an  interpreter. 

"Is  the  Herald  there  in  its  seats?" 

"Yes,  the  Herald  is  there." 

"Will  it  bring  a  notice?" 

"Yes,  it  will  bring  a  notice." 

General  expression  of  relief  and  satisfaction.  Then 
from  the  master  carpenter:  "How  is  the  bridge  in  the 
first  act?" 

"The  bridge  is  grand." 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  157 

Then  from  the  master  scene-painter: 

"Does  the  palace  interior  in  the  second  act  look 
well?" 

"Its  imposing  appearance  has  created  a  positive 
furor." 

I  will  add  that  after  each  assurance  the  interrogator 
would  advance  and  solemnly  shake  hands. 

Sonnenthal's  engagement,  one  of  the  most  prosperous 
in  the  annals  of  the  local  German  stage,  was  accom 
plished  after  my  time  in  the  following  fashion.  The 
Fleischmann  group  had  sunk  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  dollars  in  the  Thalia  venture  and  refused  to 
put  up  any  more  money,  and  the  season  had  closed  with 
a  benefit  for  Carl  Herrmann  who  was  justly  popular 
with  the  company,  and  the  proceeds  of  which,  together 
with  a  sum  that  he  raised  by  pawning  his  watch,  were 
used  by  him  to  pay  off  the  chorus  and  send  them  back 
to  Europe. 

This  act  helped  to  sustain  the  excellent  reputation 
that  the  Thalia  management  had  always  enjoyed  among 
German  players,  and  now  Herrmann  and  Conried  deter 
mined  to  turn  this  reputation  to  good  account. 

There  remained  to  them  a  contract  with  Sonnenthal, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  German  favorites,  whereby  that 
actor  agreed  to  come  to  America  provided  a  large  sum 
were  paid  him  in  advance.  Conried  proceeded  to  Vienna 
and  for  a  few  days  drove  about  the  principal  thorough 
fares  attended  by  a  small  black  boy,  thus  creating  the 
illusion  of  great  American  opulence.  Then  he  called 
on  Sonnenthal  and  asked  him  if  he  were  willing  to 
undertake  an  American  tour. 


158  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

"Certainly,"  he  replied,  "provided  I  receive  the  money 
named  in  our  contract." 

"That  will  be  all  right,"  said  Conried  cheerfully,  and 
when  he  returned  to  New  York  he  and  his  partners 
evolved  a  scheme  that  they  carried  to  success.  They 
notified  their  patrons  of  the  forthcoming  tour  and  told 
them  that  as  the  season  in  New  York  was  to  be  limited 
to  a  fortnight,  they  had  decided  to  put  the  seats  on 
sale  in  advance.  So  eager  were  the  patrons  to  see  this 
great  actor  that  they  bought  enough  tickets  to  secure 
Sonnenthal's  presence  and  the  profits  of  the  enterprise 
ran  well  up  into  the  thousands,  and  enabled  Conried 
to  go  into  the  business  of  renting  steamer  chairs  on 
the  ocean  liners. 

America  owes  much  to  the  German  stage  for  many 
excellent  plays  and  operettas  as  well  as  for  many  sterling 
actors.  Among  these  latter  may  be  named  Madame 
Janauschek  who  starred  here  for  several  years;  Leo 
Dietrichstein,  who  holds  a  high  place  in  the  profession 
as  an  actor  and  adapter  of  plays;  Hubert  Wilkie  and 
that  fine  artist,  Albert  Bruning.  Madame  Cottrelly, 
whom  American  soubrettes  may  study  to  advantage,  was 
the  director  of  the  Thalia  Theatre  prior  to  the  Herr 
mann  reign. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MY  interest  in  the  various  local  foreign  communities 
began  when  I  was  practicing  French -in  the  board 
ing-house  and  was  developed  during  my  two  seasons 
at  the  Thalia  Theatre.  I  came  to  know  various  members 
of  the  Swiss  colony,  for  the  most  part  families  of  excel 
lent  standing  and  of  Genevese  nativity.  From  them  I 
learned  of  the  existence  in  the  city  of  a  personage  whom 
I  have  never  seen  mentioned  in  print.  This  was  a  nat 
ural  son  of  Louis  Napoleon,  born  shortly  after  his 
father,  who  had  lived  here  in  West  Ninth  Street,  and 
also  in  Hoboken,  returned  to  France.  I  never  met  the 
son  myself  but  I  knew  many  Swiss  and  French  who 
knew  him  and  could  speak  authoritatively  of  his  origin. 
I  have  even  seen  his  photograph  in  a  family  album.  The 
Emperor  always  took  care  of  him  and  he  had  a  berth 
in  the  French  Consulate  until  the  fall  of  the  Napoleonic 
dynasty  in  1870.  Another  foreigner  whom  I  have  often 
seen  in  Fleischmann's  Cafe  was  Count  Bellegarde,  of 
remarkable  antecedents.  He  had  at  one  time  held  the 
rank  of  Cardinal,  though  he  had  never  been  an  ordained 
priest.  Some  of  my  informants  thought  he  was  a 
regularly  chosen  member  of  the  College,  but  an  exiled 
Austrian  noble  assured  me  that  he  had  been  the  Austrian 
Nuncio  with  the  rank  of  Cardinal.  The  story  went  that 
he  had  been  disgraced  because  of  entering  into  a  mock 

159 


160  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

marriage  with  a  lady  of  high  position,  his  servant,  ar 
rayed  as  a  priest,  performing  the  ceremony.  In  his  early 
years  he  had  served  in  the  Austrian  army  and  his  brother 
filled  the  Court  position  of  First  Adjutant  to  the  Em 
peror.  When  he  first  came  to  New  York  he  found 
employment  in  a  gambling  house,  but  later  the  Emperor 
allowed  him  fifty  dollars  a  week  from  his  privy  purse, 
and  he  was  to  be  seen  almost  daily  in  Fleischmann's 
Cafe. 

Another  noble  exile  of  those  days  was  Lord  Drum- 
mond,  of  the  family  of  the  Earl  of  Perth,  who  had  been 
driven  from  his  home  because  of  his  marriage  to  the 
nursery  governess  and  who  supported  himself  by  pot- 
hunting  on  the  south  shore  of  Long  Island.  He  moved 
to  New  York  and  lived  there  in  straitened  circumstances 
for  some  years.  His  family  relented  and  offered  to 
restore  him  to  all  that  he  had  lost  provided  that  he 
would  give  up  his  wife,  but  this  he  steadfastly  refused 
to  do.  An  old  friend  of  mine  who  had  known  his  grand 
father  used  to  supply  him  with  clothes  and  finally  pro 
cured  him  a  position  as  ticket-puncher  on  the  elevated 
road.  There  he  remained  until  attacked  by  pneumonia, 
which  carried  him  off. 

Baron  de  Grimm,  whom  I  knew  intimately,  had  a  very 
unusual  history.  His  father  had  been  the  tutor  of  Alex 
ander  III  of  Russia,  and  de  Grimm  himself  had  been 
born  in  the  Winter  Palace  and  spent  his  whole  boyhood 
there  as  a  sort  of  running  mate  to  the  Czare witch  and 
his  younger  brothers.  Although  vain  in  certain  other 
respects,  he  attached  but  little  importance  to  this  early 
experience,  and  I  had  known  him  for  more  than  a  year 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  161 

before  a  chance  question  on  my  part  loosened  his  tongue. 
Once  in  his  own  house  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen 
the  Czar  of  Russia,  to  which  he  replied  nonchalantly : 
"I  slept  in  the  same  room  with  him  for  two  years." 

He  told  me  much  about  life  at  the  Russian  Court  and 
the  system  of  education  pursued  by  his  father.  The 
centre  of  this  system  was  the  young  Czarewitch  and  the 
classes  were  so  arranged — several  young  noblemen 
shared  his  studies — that  he  was  always  placed  in  close 
contact  with  the  brightest  and  most  stimulating  of  his 
companions.  His  room-mate  was  changed  at  regular 
intervals  in  order  that  no  one  of  his  playmates  should 
acquire  any  great  influence  over  him. 

From  de  Grimm  I  gained  an  idea  of  the  isolation  of 
an  autocrat  and  the  atmosphere  of  dread,  suspicion  and 
uncertainty  that  surrounds  an  autocratic  court.  When 
the  Czar  Alexander  II  sent  his  son  to  the  Riviera  for 
the  sake  of  his  health,  he  received  from  the  young  man's 
attendants  only  vague  reports  in  regard  to  his  condition 
although  couriers  arrived  daily  with  letters.  On  one 
occasion  the  soldier  who  brought  the  post-bag  was 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  Czar  himself,  and  the 
latter,  after  a  hasty  glance  at  his  correspondence,  ex 
claimed  :  "There  is  no  letter  from  my  son  and  it  is  some 
days  since  I  have  heard  from  him!" 

"But,  Sire,"  exclaimed  the  soldier,  "he  is  no  longer 
able  to  write!" 

"My  God !  My  God !"  exclaimed  the  sovereign  of  all 
the  Russias.  "Will  nobody  ever  tell  me  anything?" 
And  it  may  be  remembered  that  Nicholas  II  uttered  the 
same  despairing  cry  when  the  news  of  the  January  mas- 


162  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

sacre,  which  had  been  sedulously  kept  from  him  by  his 
courtiers,  finally  reached  his  ears. 

Attached  to  the  Court  circle  at  St.  Petersburg  in  de 
Grimm's  time  was  a  young  prince  who  was  more  than 
suspected  of  revolutionary  ideas.  He  disappeared  quite 
suddenly  and  his  friends  thought  it  inexpedient  to  in 
quire  as  to  his  whereabouts.  One  day  Madame  de 
Grimm,  according  to  her  son's  story,  was  sitting  with 
a  group  of  ladies  in  the  private  apartment  of  the  Em 
press  when  a  court  functionary  arrived  to  say  that  he 
had  sent  a  locksmith  to  repair  a  broken  lock,  and  soon 
after  a  young  man  in  workman's  blouse  entered  and  at 
once  set  about  his  work,  with  his  back  turned  to  the 
company.  Something  familiar  in  his  appearance  caused 
Madame  de  Grimm  to  cross  the  room  and  obtain  a  view 
of  his  face,  which  she  recognized  at  once  as  that  of  the 
young  prince.  Thus  disguised  he  had  made  his  way 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  Winter  Palace,  aided  by 
Heaven  alone  knows  what  accomplices.  I  asked  de 
Grimm  if  his  mother  told  any  one  of  what  she  had 
seen  and  he  made  answer  that  she  deemed  it  safer  to 
say  nothing  about  it.  She  never  even  told  her  husband 
until  after  they  had  left  Russia. 

Captain  Maximoff  was  well  known  to  Russians  of 
his  day  as  a  journalist  and  war-correspondent  and  the 
author  of  certain  books  on  social  questions.  From  his 
intimate  friend,  Count  Tolstoi,  he  had  derived  many 
ideas  regarding  the  dignity  of  manual  labor  which  he 
proceeded  to  put  into  practice  when  he  arrived  in  New 
York.  This  was  in  1892  when  the  Russian  fleet  arrived, 
bringing  two  men  of  distinction  as  guests  of  the  Admiral. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  163 

One  of  these  was  Captain  Maximoff  and  the  other  a 
cousin  of  the  Czar's.  I  met  the  Captain  soon  after  his 
arrival  and  he  told  me  that  he  would  do  no  more  writing. 
"Je  suis  plcin  de  litter aturc,  j usque  la,"  he  said,  indicating 
the  bridge  of  his  nose.  His  friends  here  tried  to  find 
some  occupation  for  him  that  would  befit  his  notions 
of  dignity  and  at  last  Gribayedoff  obtained  for  him 
the  post  of  charge  d'affaires  in  the  Herald  office,  by 
which  I  mean  that  he  had  charge  of  the  reception  room 
and  took  the  cards  of  visitors  to  members  of  the  staff. 
In  so  doing  he  often  served  J.  P.  Jackson  with  whom 
he  had  campaigned  in  the  Balkans.  But  Maximoff  was 
a  man  who  required  but  little  sleep,  and  as  his  hours 
of  duty  were  few  he  looked  about  him  for  some  work 
that  would  save  him  from  the  ennui  of  leisure.  Then 
he  appeared  in  Broadway,  clad  as  usual  in  his  frock 
coat  and  carrying  a  bundle  of  Evening  Telegrams  under 
his  arm  which  he  tried  to  vend  to  the  passers-by.  But 
the  newsboys,  whom  he  had  expected  would  hail  him 
as  a  comrade,  regarded  him  as  a  rival  and  twitched  the 
papers  from  under  his  arm  with  cries  of  derision  and 
eventually  drove  him  out  of  the  business. 

Soon  after  this  we  heard  that  he  had  purchased  a 
fruit-stand  on  the  northwest  corner  of  Third  Avenue 
and  Thirty-sixth  Street  and  "Grib"  and  I  visited  him 
there  one  Sunday  afternoon.  He  was  feeding  a  horse 
with  his  bananas,  and  an  Irishman  was  vainly  trying 
to  buy  some  apples  for  his  children.  But  the  Captain 
paid  but  scant  heed  to  the  would-be  customer.  "Go 
away !"  he  said.  "Can't  you  see  that  I  am  feeding  this 
poor  animal?" 


164  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

He  welcomed  us  cordially,  however,  as  we  were 
friends,  not  customers,  and  led  us  into  the  corner  saloon 
with  hospitable  intent.  "Your  friend  is  a  gentleman,  but 
he  don't  know  the  ways  of  New  York,  and  he'll  drop 
his  pants  on  that  apple-stand.  The  other  day  he  wanted 
me  to  change  what  he  said  was  money  though  it's  not 
the  kind  that  passes  here.  It  looked  like  it  was  torn  off 
a  tea-chest."  Thus  spake  the  bartender  to  me  con 
fidentially. 

His  fruit  business  having  failed  he  leased  from  the 
manager  of  a  Jewish  theatre  a  portion  of  the  sidewalk 
a  few  yards  from  the  playhouse,  entirely  ignoring  the 
fact  that  the  manager  had  no  sort  of  rights  in  the 
matter.  Here  he  set  up  a  small  stand  for  the  sale  of 
candy,  only  to  find  himself  in  competition  with  another 
vendor  to  whom  the  manager  had  leased  the  privilege  of 
selling  like  delicacies  inside  the  lobby  of  his  house. 

When  the  Boer  War  broke  out  the  Captain  organized 
the  Maximoff  Legion  to  serve  with  the  Boers  and  was 
killed.  I  honor  his  memory  as  that  of  a  Socialist  who 
conscientiously  lived  up  to  his  principles. 

A  Pacifist  of  a  very  different  stripe  from  those  who 
flourished  during  the  late  war  was  Vassili  Verestchagin, 
whom  I  knew  slightly  when  he  came  to  New  York  to 
exhibit  his  pictures.  I  remember  that  we  were  both 
admitted  with  due  ceremonial  to  the  Schlaraffia  at  the 
same  meeting  and  I  believe  that  we  were  at  that  time 
the  only  members  of  the  society  who  were  not  of  Ger 
man  birth.  Verestchagin  had  served  his  country  as  a 
naval  officer  in  three  or  four  wars  and  had  acquired 
such  a  horror  of  the  bloody  business  that  he  turned 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  165 

his  attention  to  painting  scenes  calculated  to  inspire  a 
like  horror  in  others.  A  very  sincere  and  very  brave 
man,  he  did  not  permit  his  distaste  for  war  to  turn  him 
into  a  conscientious  objector,  but  continued  in  the  service 
of  his  country  in  the  struggle  between  her  and  Japan 
and  perished  in  the  sinking  of  the  flagship  Petropav- 
lovsk. 

But  by  far  the  most  interesting  as  well  as  the  most 
sensationally  famous  of  New  York's  foreign  colony  was 
Helena  Schewitsch,  born  Fraulein  von  Donniges,  which 
name  she  exchanged  quite  early  in  life  for  that  of  Prin 
cess  Racowitza.  Among  all  the  women  whom  I  have 
known  none  has  led  a  life  so  crowded  with  incident, 
drama  and  experience  as  had  this  one.  Louis  Napoleon 
rose  from  Hoboken  to  the  Tuileries.  Madame  Ra 
cowitza  had  been  in  her  early  childhood  the  playmate 
of  another  Louis,  that  mad  King  of  Bavaria,  and  when 
I  knew  her  she  had  reached  Hoboken  in  her  long  journey 
toward  her  own  tragic  end. 

Born  of  a  Jewish  mother  and  a  father  who  claimed 
descent  from  the  ancient  Vikings,  she  was  wont  to  at 
tribute  to  the  latter  the  romanticism  and  lack  of  self- 
restraint  that  dominated  her  career.  Brought  up  in  the 
intellectual  society  of  Munich,  Fraulein  von  Donniges 
had  opportunities  for  knowing  distinguished  and  noble 
men  and  women  such  as  seldom  fall  to  the  lot  of  a 
young  girl  in  any  capital.  As  she  grew  in  years  she 
accompanied  her  father  to  the  different  European  courts 
to  which  he  was  accredited  by  his  sovereign  and  where 
she  attracted  much  attention  because  of  her  wit  and 
beauty.  The  constant  flattery  that  she  received,  com- 


166  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

bined  with  the  qualities  already  named,  gave  her  a  self- 
esteem  and  passion  for  publicity  to  which  are  due  many 
of  the  eccentricities  and  amorous  adventures  with  which 
her  history  is  punctuated.  A  quiet  domestic  life  had  no 
charm  for  her.  She  was  happy  only  when  public  atten 
tion  was  turned  toward  her,  no  matter  for  what  cause. 

She  certainly  followed  trails  then  rarely  trodden  by 
young  women  of  her  birth.  At  a  time  when  German 
custom  frowned  upon  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  woman 
to  escape  from  the  narrow  limits  of  church,  kitchen  and 
nursery  she  was  insistent  in  her  clamor  for  that  "equality 
of  the  sexes"  that  we  hear  so  much  about  now.  An 
uncompromising  advocate  of  the  single  standard  of  mor 
ality  for  both  men  and  women  she  was  neither  afraid 
nor  ashamed  to  practice  what  she  preached. 

She  was  still  very  young  when  she  fell  in  love  with 
Ferdinand  Lassalle,  and  her  own  writings  leave  us  in 
no  doubt  regarding  the  nature  of  her  relations  with  him. 
Her  lover  was  considered  one  of  the  most  brilliant  men 
of  his  time  and  was  the  virtual  founder  of  the  German 
Socialist  Party.  The  dream  of  his  followers,  who  were 
numerous  and  intensely  devoted  to  him  as  well  as  to  his 
cause,  was  to  see  him  installed  as  the  President  of  the 
German  Republic  with  the  golden-haired  Helena  at  his 
side.  Her  parents  wished  her  to  break  off  her  intimacy 
with  the  Socialist  leader  and  marry  the  Wallachian 
Prince  Racowitza  and  it  was  the  jealous  rivalry  between 
the  suitors  that  led  to  the  duel  in  which  Lassalle  was 
killed. 

As  the  heroine  of  a  duel  that  had  robbed  her  of  her 
lover  and  Central  Europe  of  one  of  its  most  famous  men, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  167 


Fraulein  von  Donniges  enjoyed  a  degree  of  publicity 
that  would  have  satisfied  the  cravings  of  the  most 
exigeante  of  po  senses.  It  was  the  most  sensational  and 
widely  discussed  affair  of  honor  of  its  time  and  the 
belief  was  general  that  to  seek  further  reclame  would 
result  only  in  a  mortifying  anti-climax.  But  these 
prophets  failed  to  reckon  with  either  the  resource  or 
the  capacity  for  creating  publicity  of  this  young  woman. 
Helena  did  the  one  thing  likely  to  intensify  the  feelings 
of  interest  and  curiosity  with  which  the  public  regarded 
her.  Within  six  months  she  married  the  slayer  of  her 
lover. 

This  marriage  marked  the  high  water  of  her  renown 
and  established  a  record  that  not  even  the  most  crafty 
self-advertiser  has  ever  passed.  The  death  of  her  hus 
band  a  few  months  later  fanned  the  dying  embers  of 
popular  interest  into  a  brief  flame  and  then  came  silence, 
always  distasteful  to  her.  More  than  one  man  of  artistic 
distinction  became  her  lover — she  had  good  taste  in  such 
affairs — and  for  a  time  she  enjoyed  a  succds  d'estime  on 
the  stage  and  as  the  author  of  novels  and  books  which 
like  My  Relations  with  Lassalle,  dealt  largely  with  her 
own  wayward  career.  She  came  to  America  as  the  wife 
of  a  well  born  Russian  named  Serge  Schewitsch  and  it 
was  here  that  I  knew  them  both.  She  must  have  been 
over  forty  years  of  age  at  this  time  and  her  face  still 
bore  traces  of  former  beauty.  She  had  a  head  of  splen 
did  golden  hair  which  gained  for  her  the  nickname  of 
the  "Red  Countess"  and  she  was  certainly  a  woman  of 
wit,  intelligence  and  rare  personal  charm — or  at  least  so 
she  appeared  to  me. 


168  ,    FORTY-ODD  YEARS 


Her  husband,  who  had  been  exiled  from  Russia  be 
cause  of  his  revolutionary  activities,  wrote  for  the  World 
and  some  of  the  papers  printed  in  foreign  tongues  and 
became  the  editor  of  the  Volkszeitung,  but  I  was  in 
formed  by  more  than  one  of  his  countrymen,  among 
whom  I  had  quite  an  acquaintance,  that  he  was  really  the 
leader  of  the  local  group  of  Nihilists  whose  activities 
were  directed  against  the  Czar's  government.  The  two 
lived  quietly  and  consorted  only  with  the  members  of  the 
various  foreign  colonies.  I  recall  a  supper  given  by 
Barnay  to  which  I  was  the  only  American  invited  and 
at  which  Madame  Schewitsch  presided  with  the  grace  of 
one  to  the  manner  born,  conversing  with  great  animation 
and  fluency  in  at  least  four  languages. 

I  am  sure  that  very  few  New  Yorkers  were  aware  of 
the  presence  in  the  town  of  such  a  celebrity,  and  Madame 
Schewitsch  courted  no  publicity  in  the  American  press. 
But  she  was  a  born  intrigante  and  the  cabals  of  the 
Thalia's  avant-scene  claimed  much  of  her  attention.  She 
became  a  violent  partisan— I  forget  on  which  side— in 
the  rivalry  between  Gallmeyer  and  Geistinger,  and  a  firm 
supporter  of  Barnay  in  his  revolt  against  Conried.  The 
tragedian  was  wont  to  give  expression  to  his  feelings  by 
replying  to  a  casual  inquiry  as  to  his  health:  "I  am 
very  well  to-day,  thank  you;  I  have  not  seen  my  man 
ager  for  twenty-four  hours."  When  asked  how  long 
he  expected  to  remain  in  America  he  would  reply  with 
a  pleasant  smile:  "Twenty-three  days,  thirteen  hours 
and  fourteen  minutes,"  and  then  look  at  his  watch  as  if 
to  make  sure  that  he  had  estimated  correctly. 

I  have  written  of  Madame  Schewitsch  as  I  knew  her. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  169 

Her  history  has  been  more  fully  related  in  George 
Meredith's  Tragic  Comedians,  and  in  Israel  Zangwill's 
Dreamers  of  the  Ghetto,  and  also  in  her  own  printed 
works. 

Very  early  one  morning  in  the  autumn  of  1897,  I  in 
quired  of  a  small  newsboy,  from  whom  I  had  purchased 
a  paper,  if  he  obtained  his  stock  in  trade  from  the 
American  News  Company,  to  which  he  made  answer: 
"Naw,  I  gits  'em  offa  Try  Tollar." 

"And  who  may  Dry  Dollar  be?"  I  asked. 

"He's  a  big  lad  wot  buys  for  us  little  kids,"  he  an 
swered  and  thus  I  heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  man 
who  was  even  then  beginning  to  build  up  the  great  per 
sonal  following  that  made  him  a  political  power  on  the 
East  Side  in  later  years.  The  newsboy  further  explained 
that  this  man,  afterward  known  as  "Big  Tim  Sullivan," 
owed  his  nickname  to  the  fact  that  he  never  drank 
anything  and  kept  his  dollars  dry,  but  Sullivan  himself 
informed  me  many  years  later,  while  seated  in  his  saloon 
in  Centre  Street,  that  although  he  never  tasted  liquor, 
he  acquired  the  name  when,  as  a  very  small  boy,  he  found 
a  beer  stamp  on  the  sidewalk  and  brought  it  to  his  mother 
saying,  "Here's  a  dry  dollar  I've  found." 

Sullivan  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  region  in 
which  he  lived,  then  largely  populated  by  the  Irish  and 
Germans.  He  was  a  born  leader  who  studied  the  needs 
or  rather  the  wishes  of  his  following  and  tried  to  give 
them  what  they  most  desired.  He  remained  a  politician 
to  the  last,  though  as  years  went  on  he  became  interested 
in  theatrical  and  gambling  ventures,  and  was  the  ac 
knowledged  head  of  the  all-powerful  Sullivan  Clan. 


170  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

This  included  a  cousin  called  "Little  Tim  Sullivan,"  a 
half-brother  named  Larry  Mulligan,  and  another  cousin, 
Florence  Sullivan,  who  kept  a  saloon  on  Chatham  Square. 
Florence  was  one  of  the  few  real  municipal  reformers  I 
have  known  and  he  reformed  his  own  bailiwick  by 
methods  which  were  at  once  simple  and  effective.  He 
had  an  intense  hatred,  common  enough  among  the  Irish, 
for  the  miserable  men  who  subsisted  on  the  earnings  of 
depraved  women,  and  whenever  he  met  one  of  these 
creatures  within  the  limits  of  his  district,  he  hit  him  in 
the  face,  the  result  being  that  in  the  course  of  time  he 
had  one  of  the  cleanest  visiting  lists  in  New  York. 

Most  of  the  reformers  whom  I  have  known  have  di 
rected  their  energies  toward  some  region  remote  from 
their  own,  but  Florence  never  sought  to  reform  either 
Fifth  Avenue  or  Brooklyn.  He  confined  his  beneficent 
energies  to  the  quarter  in  which  he  lived. 

Another  East  Side  politician  whom  I  came  to  know 
very  well  was  a  Hungarian  Jew  called  "Silver  Dollar 
Smith/'  who  had  imbedded  a  thousand  silver  dollars 
with  a  fifty-dollar  gold  piece  in  the  centre,  in  the  cement 
floor  of  his  Essex  Street  saloon,  and  many  were  the  east 
side  nails  worn  out  in  trying  to  extract  them.  Smith 
told  me  that  in  the  three  days  that  followed  the  comple 
tion  of  this  scheme  of  decoration  he  took  in  over  his 
bar  more  than  three  times  its  total  cost  from  persons 
who  "wanted  to  see  how  this  fool  had  wasted  his 
money." 

My  acquaintance  with  Smith  began  at  the  annual  pic 
nic  of  the  John  J.  O'Brien  Association  of  the  Eighth 
Assembly  District,  which  I  reported  for  the  Herald.  As 


II 

o 


w  2 


0  a 

>   H 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  171 

the  Herald  had  been  diligently  "pounding"  Smith  and 
his  political  associates  as  "eye-gougers  and  thugs" — 
neither  of  which  epithets  Smith  deserved — I  was  a  little 
in  doubt  as  to  how  I  would  be  received.  It  was  a  picnic 
of  the  old-fashioned  political  kind,  attended  only  by 
men,  and  nobody  in  the  district  who  looked  for  further 
favors  dared  refuse  purchasing  a  ticket.  After  a  parade 
through  the  region  the  company  embarked  on  a  steam 
boat  and  I  modestly  followed,  handing  in  my  ticket  with 
the  fatal  word  Herald  upon  it.  The  boat  had  no  sooner 
started  than  faro-tables,  poker  tables,  roulette  wheels 
and  other  portable  appurtenances  of  the  goddess  of 
Chance  sprang  up  everywhere  and  in  such  numbers  that 
I  wondered  if  there  were  any  persons  left  on  board  to 
try  their  luck. 

The  ticket  teller  had  shrewdly  made  note  of  my  appear 
ance  and  by  his  identification  Smith  sought  me  out  with 
a  friendly  welcome  and  led  me  to  a  stateroom  reserved 
for  distinguished  guests  and  adorned  with  many  bottles 
of  champagne.  The  company  landed  at  Whitestone 
after  a  voyage  which  had  been  noteworthy  because  of 
the  complete  absence  of  fighting  and  even  disputes  over 
the  gambling  tables  and  that,  too,  despite  the  fact  that 
there  was  a  free  bar  for  the  distribution  of  beer  and 
spirits  to  the  thirsty.  The  crowd  was  too  tough  to 
permit  any  brawls  and  they  were  all  anxious  to  preserve 
the  good  reputation  of  the  John  J.  O'Brien  Association 
as  a  peaceful  body. 

After  the  publication  of  my  report,  the  Herald  for 
some  reason  ceased  to  attack  Smith  and  despite  my 
denials  he  insisted  upon  it  that  my  influence  had  secured 


172  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

him  this  immunity  and  he  was  grateful  to  me  and  I  may 
say,  a  good  friend  of  mine  from  that  time  on.  Some 
years  later  I  was  an  honored  guest  at  the  wedding  of 
his  daughter  in  an  uptown  hall,  a  ceremony  that  was 
witnessed  by  an  extraordinary  gathering  that  ranged  in 
social  status  from  Police  Inspectors  down  to  the  deaf 
and  dumb  bootblack  of  the  Essex  Market  Court.  John 
Y.  McKane  came  over  from  Coney  Island  for  the  occa 
sion,  and  a  guest  of  even  greater  importance  than  him 
self  was  a  woman  who  kept  a  house  of  ill-fame  and  was 
a  distinct  power  in  East  Side  politics.  The  bride  was  a 
modest  and  attractive  girl  of  pleasing  manners.  She  told 
me  that  her  father  had  a  roof -garden  on  top  of  his 
house  built  especially  for  her  to  play  in  and  that  she 
had  been  carefully  kept  off  the  streets  from  her  earliest 
childhood. 

Through  Smith  I  came  to  know  something  of  East 
Side  politics  and  one  or  two  of  its  politicians,  one  of 
whom  was  Barney  Rourke,  whose  dingy  saloon  on  a 
narrow  by-street  was  famous  as  the  scene  of  a  meeting 
marked  by  red  letters  on  the  annals  of  the  district. 

Rourke  divided  the  leadership  with  "Silver  Dollar" 
and  once,  when  there  was  misunderstanding  between 
them  and  the  administration  on  some  political  matter, 
he  flatly  refused  to  go  to  the  White  House  to  settle  it 
and  it  became  necessary  for  the  mountain  to  come  to 
Mahomet.  President  Arthur  journeyed  unostentati 
ously  to  New  York  and  presented  himself  one  Sunday 
morning  at  the  door  of  the  dingy  saloon,  where  he  was 
received  by  Rourke  and  conducted  to  a  little  back  room 


r  Cd 
3  u 
«  x 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  173 

in  which  many  political  disputes  had  in  previous  years 
been  settled.  It  was  here  that  certain  matters  relating  to 
the  governorship  were  amicably  discussed  and  an  agree 
ment  reached. 

The  men  whom  I  have  described  owed  their  influence 
to  their  ability  to  secure  the  largest  possible  number  of 
labor  tickets  for  their  constituents,  and  as  each  one  of 
these  tickets  entitled  its  holder  to  a  job  on  some  munici 
pal  work  its  possession  was  a  matter  of  supreme  impor 
tance  to  those  who  earned  their  bread  by  the  sweat  of 
their  brow. 

Rourke  was  a  taciturn  little  Irishman  who  held  his 
following  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  It  is  related  of 
him  that  at  the  close  of  a  hotly-contested  election,  one 
of  his  lieutenants  rushed  in  to  inform  him  that  he  had 
carried  his  district  by  every  vote  but  one. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  retorted  Rourke  vehemently, 
"is  the  name  of  the  wan  sucker  that  voted  agin  us!" 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  first  Cleveland  adminis 
tration  that  I  went  down  to  Coney  Island,  probably  for 
no  sane  purpose,  and  did  some  newspaper  work  there. 
I  was  attracted  by  the  picturesque  aspects  of  that  resort, 
for  John  Y.  McKane  was  then  at  the  height  of  his  power 
and  a  revolt  against  the  Cleveland  administration  seemed 
likely  in  the  near  future.  The  President  was  not  popu 
lar  with  those  professional  politicians  who  looked  only 
to  a  division  of  the  spoils,  and  his  championship  of  new 
Civil  Service  rules  was  a  menace  to  their  power. 

Coney  Island  was  at  this  time  very  different  from 
what  it  is  to-day.  It  had  emerged  from  the  roughness 


174  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

of  the  Norton's  Point  dominion  and  was  a  comparatively 
well-ordered  breathing-spot,  lighted  chiefly  by  naphtha 
gas. 

McKane  was  an  Irishman  with  a  skill  in  political 
matters  characteristic  of  his  race.  He  had  contrived  to 
secure  for  himself  and  his  followers  every  one  of  the 
important  political  offices  that  the  Island  government 
afforded,  and  in  so  doing  had  made  himself  a  ruler  of 
despotic  power.  His  ukase  "get  off  the  island!"  had  to 
be  obeyed  and  hardy  indeed  was  the  citizen  who  dared 
defy  him.  I  must  say  that  his  rule  was,  on  the  whole, 
mild  and  just  and  there  was  no  question  as  to  the  loyalty 
and  devotion  of  his  subjects. 

Annie  Reilly,  a  highly  gifted  artist,  according  to  Island 
standards,  attracted  the  favorable  eye  of  Gallagher,  the 
local  plumber,  while  she  was  singing  in  one  of  the  beach 
pavilions.  Moved  to  exasperation  by  a  long  delay  in  the 
work  of  re-plumbing  the  building  that  served  as  his 
headquarters,  McKane  learned,  in  response  to  inquiry, 
of  the  plumber's  infatuation.  Summoning  one  of  his 
henchmen,  he  exclaimed,  "Tell  Annie  Reilly  to  get  off 
the  Island  till  Gallagher's  finished  the  plumbing,"  and 
from  this  sentence  there  was  no  appeal.  Gallagher  fell 
upon  his  job,  tooth  and  nail,  and  three  or  four  days 
later  Miss  Reilly  resumed  her  artistic  activities  in  the 
presence  of  an  enthusiastic,  welcoming  audience. 

I  recall  another  ripple  in  the  current  of  musical  life 
in  which  McKane  again  assumed  the  role  of  Solomon. 
Miss  Lottie  Reeves,  a  favorite  songstress,  having  lost 
two  of  her  front  teeth  through  contact  with  her  hus 
band's  fist,  replaced  them  with  wads  of  chewing-gum, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  175 

but  further  family  jars  brought  the  case  into  the  local 
police-court.  McKane  listened  gravely  while  Miss  Reeves 
described  the  domestic  affray  and  explained  what  she 
would  have  done  to  her  mate  if  it  hadn't  been  that  she 
was  a  perfect  lady.  The  chewing-gum  teeth  melted  when 
she  tried  to  eat  an  ear  of  hot  corn,  leaving  an  aperture 
through  which  her  high  notes  came  haltingly  and  without 
their  accustomed  melody.  McKane's  verdict  was  that 
the  husband  should  buy  her  a  new  and  entirely  satis 
factory  set  of  teeth  and  the  now  re-united  pair  departed 
amicably. 

Under  McKane's  rule  the  Island  drew  to  itself  a 
large  number  of  broken-down  gamblers,  crooks  and  dive- 
keepers  and  these  found  sanctuary  there  so  long  as  they 
did  not  transact  any  nefarious  business  within  the  limits 
of  McKane's  bailiwick.  It  was  a  picturesque  colony  that 
these  way-worn  sinners  formed,  one  that  remained  there 
winter  as  well  as  summer  and  it  was  a  common  saying 
that  any  old-timer  who  joined  this  colony  went  out  feet 
first.  On  one  thing  at  least  the  colony  prided  itself  and 
that  was  the  fact  that  Potter's  Field  had  never  claimed 
even  the  poorest  of  its  members.  "The  Island  buries  its 
own  dead"  was  a  phrase  that  went  the  rounds  when  the 
word  was  passed  that  some  old  thief  or  gambler  had 
"cashed  in." 

More  than  one  notorious  career  came  to  an  end 
within  sound  of  the  Coney  Island  waves.  There  was 
Kate  Leary  who  dug  her  husband  Red  Leary  out  of 
Ludlow  Street  jail  and  was  in  consequence  a  nine  days' 
heroine  in  the  town.  Some  years  after  this  exploit,  her 
husband  died  and  she  came  down  to  Coney  Island  and 


176  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

opened  a  small  saloon,  hoping  to  obtain  the  patronage 
of  the  gang  with  which  Red  had  operated.  As  years 
went  on  she  grew  poorer  and  poorer  and  when  her  mind 
began  to  weaken  the  local  authorities  took  notice  of  her 
condition  and  would  have  sent  her  to  Blackwell's  Island 
had  it  not  been  for  the  friendly  offices  of  an  old-time 
pickpocket  and  his  wife  who  came  forward  and  offered 
to  care  for  her  during  the  remainder  of  her  days.  This 
worthy  pair  dwelt  in  a  cabin  remote  from  the  merry  end 
of  the  Island  and  here,  a  few  weeks  later,  while  the  wind 
was  howling  dismally  over  the  marshes,  the  word  went 
forth  from  that  lonely  habitation  that  Kate  Leary  had 
"cashed  in." 

Another  career  that  came  to  an  end  on  that  dreary 
marsh-land  was  that  of  one  of  the  Worrell  sisters,  whom 
I  remember  as  the  managers  of  a  theatre  on  Broadway, 
with  the  family  name  in  gas-jets  over  the  entrance.  One 
of  the  sisters  married  George  S.  Knight,  a  well-known 
actor,  but  this  one  took  to  evil  courses,  drifted  down  to 
the  Island,  and  one  night,  being  absolutely  homeless, 
wandered  out  to  the  marshes  and,  while  trying  to  light  a 
cigarette,  set  fire  to  the  dry  sea  grass  and  was  burned 
to  death. 

A  man  of  a  certain  eminence  in  the  criminal  world 
who  kept  a  bar-room  on  the  Island  under  McKane's 
benign  rule  was  Mr.  Abe  Coakley,  who  had  had  a  part 
in  the  plundering  of  the  Manhattan  Bank.  This  gigantic 
robbery  ranks  in  criminal  circles  as  does  the  "Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade,"  in  the  annals  of  the  British  Army. 
Several  of  the  leading  experts  among  safe-crackers  took 
part  in  this  colossal  job  and  it  is  said  that  nearly  three 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  177 

years  were  spent  in  preparation.  Offices  were  hired  that 
commanded  a  view  of  the  interior  of  the  bank  and  it 
was  through  this  means  that  the  robbers  discovered  that 
the  janitor  had  the  combination  of  the  safe.  Mr.  Coakley 
was  taken  into  the  plot  because  he  bore  a  strong  re 
semblance  to  this  janitor  and  when  the  latter  was  seized 
on  Saturday  night,  securely  tied  and  the  secret  of  the 
combination  learned  from  him,  Mr.  Coakley  was  arrayed 
in  his  clothes  and  told  to  play  the  janitor's  part  on  Sun 
day  morning.  Early  on  that  day  he  appeared  with  his 
duster  inside  the  bank  where  all  passers-by  could  see  him 
through  the  plate-glass  windows  and  there  he  remained, 
performing  all  the  ordinary  duties  of  the  man  whom  he 
had  replaced.  Meanwhile  the  marauders  were  at  work 
in  the  bank  vaults,  and  early  on  Monday  morning  they 
forced  open  the  last  door  and  took  out  money  and  secur 
ities  of  enormous  value.  Nearly  all  of  the  last  named 
were  not  negotiable  but  there  were  enough  of  the  others 
to  make  the  venture  profitable  for  all  concerned.  A 
quarter  of  a  century  later  a  number  of  these  securities 
that  were  not  negotiable  were  placed  on  the  market  by 
a  gentleman  living  at  the  Waldorf. 

An  episode  relating  to  this  robbery  which  I  learned 
from  one  of  the  greatest  criminal  authorities  in  America 
is  worth  relating.  A  great  many  persons  have  declared 
that  Professor  Moriarty,  of  Sherlock  Holmes  fame,  who 
engineered  many  of  the  biggest  jobs  in  London  and  was 
yet  personally  unknown  to  the  police,  was  an  impossible 
character.  Nevertheless  he  had  a  prototype  in  New  York 
in  the  person  of  Jimmy  Hope,  the  moving  spirit  of  the 
Manhattan  Bank  robbery.  Soon  after  this  affair,  while 


178  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Captain  Byrnes  was  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  put 
his  hands  on  this  criminal  whom  he  had  never  seen, 
Hope  was  standing  on  a  street  corner  in  conversation 
with  a  pal.  'There  comes  the  captain  of  the  precinct/' 
warned  the  latter. 

"He  don't  know  me.  Watch  me  get  a  light  for  my 
cigar."  And  forthwith  the  Moriarty  of  his  day  accosted 
the  official  who  was  then  hunting  everywhere  for  him. 

I  heard  of  Coakley  a  few  years  ago  and  he  was  then 
picking  up  a  living  in  an  odd  fashion.  He  was  then  a 
very  old  man  and  the  possessor  of  a  long  gray  beard,  a 
form  of  hirsute  adornment  that  seldom  fails  to  inspire 
confidence  in  urban  as  well  as  in  bucolic  minds,  and  this 
beard  had  become  a  source  of  precarious  income  to  the 
aged  crook.  He  worked  with  certain  experts  in  green 
goods  and  gold  bricks  and  when  a  prospective  victim — 
termed  in  the  lexicon  of  the  craft  a  "come-on" — was 
nearly  ripe  for  plucking  the  expert  who  had  him  in  tow 
would  suddenly  explain :  "Before  we  go  any  further  in 
this  deal  I  want  you  to  meet  my  dear  old  father,  as  fine 
an  old  gentleman  as  ever  walked  the  streets." 

And,  having  been  dragged  from  his  lurking  place  and 
duly  presented,  the  venerable  man  would  lay  a  trembling 
hand  on  the  stranger's  shoulder  and  address  him  in  a 
voice  whose  sincerity  exactly  matched  his  whiskers: 
"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  my  boy,  very  glad  indeed  to  meet 
any  friend  of  my  son's.  This  is  an  awful  wicked  city 
but  my  son  Joe  will  take  good  care  of  you.  Stay  by 
him  and  you'll  be  all  right.  God  bless  you,  my  boy." 

What  "come-on"  could  withstand  such  an  appeal? 

A  matter  that  interested  me  quite  seriously  in  Coney 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  179 

Island  was  the  disposition  of  the  western  end  of  the 
Island,  consisting  of  a  hundred  and  thirty-five  acres  and 
now  known  as  Sea  Gate.  So  long  as  the  McKane  crowd 
controlled  the  property  no  one  would  touch  it,  but  finally 
they  cut  it  off  from  the  town  of  Gravesend  and  offered 
it  for  sale  for  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  I  tried  to 
interest  one  or  two  moneyed  men  in  the  venture  but  they 
wagged  their  heads  ominously  and  said  that  it  was  so 
near  New  York  that  if  there  were  anything  in  it,  some 
body  would  have  done  something  with  it  already.  The 
value  of  Sea  Gate  lots  at  the  present  day  is,  I  believe, 
a  matter  of  record. 

In  my  mind,  however,  this  wild  stretch  of  beach  and 
sand  dunes  was  singularly  attractive.  The  only  houses 
on  it  were  the  two  abandoned  structures  at  the  western 
end,  one  the  old  Norton's  Point  Hotel,  and  the  other  the 
house  in  which  Tweed  lay  hidden  after  his  escape  from 
prison.  The  waves  dashed  up  close  to  the  steps  of  the 
old  hostelry  and  the  only  living  creatures  to  be  seen  about 
were  the  sea  gulls  and  a  few  rabbits. 

McKane  was  an  efficient  Chief  of  Police.  With  a 
very  small  force  he  handled  the  great  Sunday  crowds 
at  the  Island,  which  always  contained  an  unruly  element, 
so  well  that  I  never  saw  a  serious  affray  there  during 
the  days  of  his  rule.  As  I  have  already  indicated  he 
governed  his  own  bailiwick  with  unquestioned  authority 
and  at  the  same  time  enjoyed  the  fealty  of  his  subjects 
to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

There  was  one  man,  however,  who  rebelled  against  his 
authority,  a  grim  and  sandy  old  bathing-house-keeper 
named  Peter  Tilyou,  a  native  of  Gravesend  and  the 


180  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

founder  of  the  dynasty  still  powerful  at  the  resort.  Til- 
you  was  in  a  chronic  state  of  rebellion  against  the 
Island's  autocrat  and  when  McKane  was  sentenced  to 
Sing  Sing  for  defying  a  Supreme  Court  injunction,  the 
old  man  hovered  about  him  as  he  was  conveyed  by  officers 
from  his  home  to  the  place  of  his  incarceration  and 
bobbed  up  at  various  points  to  shake  a  triumphant  fist 
in  the  face  of  his  fallen  foe. 

I  may  add  that  during  his  prison  term,  McKane  was 
not  only  a  model  of  good  behavior,  but  also  rendered 
efficient  service  to  the  State  by  means  of  his  skill  as  a 
carpenter  and  builder.  Evidences  of  his  proficiency  in 
those  crafts  may  still  be  seen  there. 

A  man  whom  I  knew  at  this  time  and  whose  fame  at 
the  height  of  his  career  was  world-wide,  was  a  specialist 
in  the  very  highest  sense  of  the  word  in  a  very  unusual 
calling.  Specialists  there  are  whose  knowledge  beyond 
the  limits  of  their  own  craft  is  not  extensive  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  this  man,  an  absolute  genius  in  his 
own  line,  knew  nothing  else,  although  he  had  enjoyed 
extraordinary  advantages  in  the  way  of  travel. 

His  name  was  Blondin  and  there  are  still  living  many 
who  remember  the  excitement  caused  in  the  Sixties  when 
he  walked  across  Niagara  Falls  on  a  tight  rope,  pausing 
midway  in  his  course  to  cook  and  eat  an  omelette,  and 
even  offering  to  take  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  had 
gazed  in  wonder  at  his  achievement,  from  Canada  to 
this  country  on  his  back. 

Blondin  came  of  a  family  of  strolling  mountebanks 
and  was  accustomed,  from  his  infancy,  to  see  his  father 
and  his  sister  perform  feats  of  daring  and  agility  that 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  181 

excited  the  wonder  of  every  one  who  witnessed  them 
in  the  villages  of  central  Europe.  As  the  custom  was 
then,  the  tight  rope  on  which  they  performed  was 
stretched  from  the  ground  to  a  church  steeple  and  one 
day,  when  Blondin  was  but  four  years  of  age,  he  saw  his 
sister  dart  nimbly  up  the  rope  and  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  fear  for  her  safety.  Picking  up  his  father's  cane, 
he  followed  her  up  the  rope  and  the  amazement  of  the 
family  was  greater  than  that  of  the  villagers,  for  he 
had  never  attempted  the  feat  before.  They  saw  at  once 
that  he  was  a  born  tight  rope  walker  and  declared  that 
he  should  follow  that  calling. 

He  did  follow  it  in  every  part  of  the  world  and  never 
had  an  accident  of  any  kind.  He  was  the  only  per 
former  of  his  kind  that  I  have  ever  seen  whom  I  could 
watch  without  fear  of  disaster,  yet  outside  of  this  he 
knew  nothing  at  all.  His  travels  and  experiences  in 
far  off  lands  had  left  no  impression  on  his  mind  and 
although  he  had  lived  in  England  nearly  twenty  years, 
he  could  not  speak  a  single  word  of  English.  On  terra 
firma  he  impressed  me  as  singularly  dull,  but  the  moment 
he  put  his  foot  on  the  rope  he  took  on  an  air  of  dignity 
that  could  not  fail  to  impress  the  beholder.  He  had  a 
trick  of  pretending  to  slip  in  the  midst  of  his  journey 
and  it  never  failed  to  elicit  from  the  watching  crowd  a 
great  roar  of  apprehensive  groans.  More  than  once  I 
have  seen  women  fall  fainting  at  this  moment. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  illustration  of  the  fact  that  my  hindsight  has,  like 
that  of  most  men,  always  been  clearer  than  my  fore 
sight,  I  recall  a  day  in  the  early  Seventies  when  an  idle 
stroll  on  Broadway  yielded  two  episodes  whose  full 
significance  I  did  not  understand  until  many  years  later. 
Desirous  of  refreshment  I  descended  into  a  beer  saloon 
close  to  where  the  Broadway  Central  Hotel  now  stands 
and  there  beheld  a  few  survivors  of  the  old  "Pfaff 
crowd/'  the  bohemians  of  the  Fifties  and  Sixties.  They 
were  seated  around  a  table  directly  under  the  sidewalk 
and  one  of  them  was  Charles  L.  Gaylor,  one  of  the  early 
American  dramatists  whose  face  I  readily  recalled  when 
I  came  to  know  him  in  a  later  decade.  A  little  further 
in  my  walk  I  paused  to  watch  the  evolutions  of  a  skillful 
rider  of  one  of  the  heavy  wooden  velocipedes  that  pre 
ceded  the  modern  bicycle.  Long  afterward  I  learned 
that  the  rider  of  the  velocipede  was  Gus  Frohman  of 
the  now  famous  theatrical  brotherhood,  and  that  the 
picture,  that  hung  on  the  wall  of  PfafFs  cellar  was  that 
of  one  of  the  earliest  bohemians,  Georges  Clemenceau. 
Thus  it  happened  that  within  the  brief  space  of  half  an 
hour  I  had  seen  the  last  of  a  passing  order  and  the  begin 
nings  of  a  new  and  powerful  dynasty. 

The  career  of  the  Frohmans  and  the  power  of  the 

182 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  183 

theatrical  syndicate,  with  which  they  were  associated, 
have  proved  fruitful  of  much  comment  but  to  this  day 
I  have  not  been  able  to  decide  whether  they  have  been  a 
curse  or  a  blessing.  And  I  may  say  the  same  of  nearly 
all  the  great  commercial  trusts  and  the  captains  of  in 
dustry  who  control  them.  In  dealing  with  this  subject 
we  must  remember  that  the  close  of  the  Eighties  found 
the  business  of  theatricals  still  regarded  by  men  of 
means  as  an  uncertain,  not  to  say  dangerous  proposition. 
An  actor  who  made  an  engagement  had  to  consider 
not  only  the  play  and  his  own  part  but  also  the  chances 
of  success,  for  fly-by-night  managers  would  organize 
a  company  on  the  most  slender  capital  and  if  successful 
enjoy  a  prosperous  season  or  if  not,  would  not  hesitate  to 
abandon  their  people  in  some  remote  town  and  hurry 
back  to  New  York  where  they  would  have  no  difficulty 
in  getting  actors  for  their  next  enterprise.  Most  of  the 
business  of  engaging  companies,  ordering  printing  and 
arranging  routes  was  carried  on  along  the  sidewalks  of 
Union  Square  or  in  contiguous  saloons.  A  manager 
was  not  said  to  have  an  office  but  a  "hang-out,"  where  he 
transacted  his  business.  These  unfortunate  conditions 
supplied  the  humorists  with  abundant  material  and  Fred 
Opper  was  very  happy  in  his  line  of  work.  A  picture 
of  his  that  I  recall  represents  a  group  of  actors  discuss 
ing  the  relative  degrees  of  safety  of  a  single  and  double 
track  road.  One  of  them  declared  that  the  double  track 
road  was  more  unsafe  than  the  other,  because  as  you 
were  stepping  off  one  track  to  avoid  an  approaching  train, 
you  were  liable  to  be  run  over  by  another  coming  from 
the  opposite  direction. 


184  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

The  laws  affecting  dramatic  copyright  were  far  from 
satisfactory  in  those  days  and  gave  ample  opportunity 
to  the  unscrupulous.  It  was  to  defeat  the  work  of  the 
play-pirates  that  a  young  Louisville  lawyer  named  Marc 
Klaw  was  employed  by  the  Mallorys,  who  were  frequent 
sufferers  from  those  gentry.  In  chasing  down  these 
swindlers,  Mr.  Klaw  was  eminently  successful,  as  he 
has  been  later  as  a  syndicate  manager.  Another  young 
man  whose  peculiar  gifts  were  developed  in  the  war  be 
tween  Klaw  and  the  pirates,  was  one  Teddy  Byron, 
known  on  the  Rialto  as  the  "toy  tragedian/*  Byron  had 
astounding  ability  in  the  now  forgotten  craft  of 
"memorising'*  a  drama,  by  which  process,  according  to 
the  lax  code  of  his  day,  it  became  the  property  of  him 
who  stole  it.  He  could  sit  through  one  performance 
of  The  Two  OrpJwns  and  leave  the  theatre  with  every 
line  of  dialogue  and  every  bit  of  "business'*  firmly  en 
graved  on  his  memory.  But  the  attaches  of  the  various 
houses  were  always  on  the  look-out  for  him  and  many  a 
play  was  interrupted  by  the  uproar  in  the  gallery  as  the 
ushers  dragged  Teddy  from  his  seat  and  cast  him  into 
outer  darkness.  • 

That  from  the  very  beginning  the  Frohmans  aimed  to 
gain  control  of  many  theatrical  enterprises  is  not  to  be 
doubted;  nor  were  they  deterred  by  the  Nemesis  that 
had  overtaken  others  of  similar  ambition.  Ethelbert  A. 
Marshall  had  long  since  died  in  poverty,  as  stage  door 
keeper  at  a  Philadelphia  playhouse,  and  the  entrance  of 
the  Frohmans  was  coincident  with  the  decline  of  J.  H. 
Haverly,  who  had  almost  succeeded  in  carrying  out  his 
idea  of  owning  forty  theatres  scattered  about  the  coun- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  185 

try  and  as^many  traveling  companies  to  fill  them.  In 
New  York  he  controlled  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre,  the 
Fourteenth  Street  and  others  and  was  also  the  manager 
of  a  minstrel  company  and  the  director  of  the  tour  of 
Mapleson's  Grand  Opera  Company.  The  Pinafore 
craze  led  him  to  organize  a  juvenile  company  in  which 
Annie  Russell,  Willie  Collier  and  Julia  Marlowe  were 
all  enrolled.  Active  as  he  was  in  the  theatrical  field  and 
accomplished  in  financial  strategy,  Haverly  failed. 

The  new  element  in  management  proceeded  to  put  the 
theatre  on  a  business  basis.  The  arrangement  of  routes 
for  traveling  companies  had  previously  been  divided 
among  several  booking  agents  and  the  work  of  securing 
"time"  in  out  of  town  theatres  was  a  matter  of  weeks. 
Moreover  the  rivalry  between  the  various  agents  was 
keen  and  it  was  impossible  for  a  manager  to  know  what 
attraction  would  play  against  him  in  the  towns  that  he 
proposed  to  visit.  Some  of  these  agents  were  intent 
only  on  getting  paid  for  their  booking  and  did  not 
inquire  too  closely  into  the  financial  status  of  the 
manager. 

The  new  method  was  more  businesslike  for  it  looked 
into  the  manager's  credit  as  a  merchant  would  that  of  a 
customer  and  the  jokes  about  the  actor  walking  home 
along  the  railroad  ties  disappeared  from  the  pages  of 
Puck  as  the  irresponsible  manager  was  forced  out  of  the 
business.  Little  by  little  the  Syndicate  gathered  the  book 
ing  business  into  its  own  hands  and  was  thus  able  to 
arrange  a  route  in  half  an  hour  and  also  tell  a  manager 
what  attractions  would  play  against  him  in  every  town. 
Mr.  Abraham  Erlanger  proved  his  genius  for  this  work 


186  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

and  could  so  book  a  route  that  similar  attractions  did 
not  play  against  each  other.  These  methods  imparted 
to  the  business  a  commercial  solidity  such  as  had  never 
been  enjoyed  before  and  to  actors  and  dramatists  greater 
emoluments.  The  new  prosperity  increased  the  demand 
for  plays  and  players  to  interpret  them,  while  the  sliding 
scale  of  royalties — devised,  I  think,  by  Charles  Froh- 
man — made  the  playwright  a  virtual  partner  of  the  man 
ager  and  enabled  Bronson  Howard,  who  had  received 
only  twenty-five  dollars  a  night  for  The  Banker's 
Daughter,  to  reap  a  fortune  of  a  hundred  thousand  from 
Shenandoah. 

I  am  quite  willing  to  concede  to  an  institution  which" 
has  been  the  object  of  many  attacks,  reasonable  as  well 
as  unreasoning,  full  recognition  of  the  many  material 
benefits  it  has  bestowed  on  the  theatre  and  its  people. 
But  I  deny  that  it  has  proved  an  unmixed  blessing,  for 
it  is  largely  responsible  for  the  box-office  management  of 
the  present  day.  It  is  true  that  good  business  direction 
is  essential  to  the  best  dramatic  art,  for  the  audience  has 
an  equation,  reckoned  as  one-third,  in  the  representation 
on  the  stage,  and  is  actually  a  part  of  that  representation. 
Unless  the  house  is  filled  with  a  paying  audience  the 
best  results  are  not  obtained.  But  the  box-office  should 
be  an  equal  partner  with  the  avant-scene  in  the  control 
of  the  theatre  and  not  the  autocratic  director  of  its  des 
tinies. 

Ideal  conditions  will  be  attained  only  in  a  theatre 
whose  business  affairs  are  conducted  by  the  best  of  the 
modern  box-office  managers  and  its  stage  by  some  one 
who  knows  it  thoroughly  and  is  not  himself  an  actor. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  187 

I  have  two  such  men  in  mind  but  will  not  mention  their 
names  for  fear  of  creating  a  riot  on  the  Rialto. 

J.  H.  McVicker  of  Chicago,  almost  the  last  of  the 
race  of  old-fashioned  managers,  understood  the  business 
"both  front  and  back,"  and  could  play  a  part  on  the 
stage  should  the  necessity  arise.  I  have  seen  him  as  the 
Grave-Digger  in  support  of  his  son-in-law,  Edwin  Booth. 
The  modern  manager  is  a  product  of  the  front  of  the 
house  and  bows  to  the  verdict  of  the  "critic  of  the  box- 
office" — a  phrase  coined,  not  by  a  member  of  the  The 
atrical  Syndicate,  but  by  A.  M.  Palmer.  To  this  inability 
to  handle  matters  behind  the  footlights  is  due  the  ex 
istence  of  the  professional  producer,  one  of  the  pests  of 
the  stage.  There  are,  of  course,  producers  who  know 
their  business  and  the  best  of  these — notably  Mr.  Belasco 
and  Mrs.  Fiske — are  producers  on  their  own  account. 
But  there  are  altogether  too  many  who  do  not  know  their 
business. 

An  incompetent  producer  will  cast  an  actor  for  the 
part,  let  us  say,  of  a  coachman,  because  he  once  saw  him 
play  a  gardener,  but  would  never  stretch  his  imagination 
to  the  point  of  asking  him  to  play  a  bishop.  That  is 
why  so  many  players  find  themselves  bound  to  a  narrow 
line  of  roles  by  chains  of  managerial  ignorance  which 
they  cannot  break.  Moreover,  this  producer  always  looks 
for  types  instead  of  actors.  In  the  belief  that  a  part 
calls  for  a  long-legged  man  with  blue  eyes  he  walks 
along  Broadway  until  he  meets  some  one  possessed  of 
those  peculiarities  and  engages  him  without  asking  if 
he  can  act.  That  is  one  reason  why  our  stage  is  over 
crowded  with  incompetents  while  players  of  known 


188  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

ability  are  unable  to  obtain  an  engagement.  It  accounts 
also  for  the  failures  of  plays  that  might  succeed  were 
they  not  miscast. 

It  is  at  rehearsal  that  the  incompetent  producer  is  seen 
at  his  worst,  and  that  worst  is  even  worse  when  the 
presence  of  his  employer  compels  him  to  "show  off."  No 
matter  how  an  actor  may  begin  to  read  the  lines,  to  which 
he  has  perhaps  devoted  considerable  thought  and  study, 
the  autocrat  interrupts  with  a  shout  of,  "That  will 
never  do,  Mr.  Buskin.  You  must  raise  your  voice  and  put 
more  pep  into  your  words.  More  pep,  if  you  want  to 
get  your  lines  across  the  footlights.  People  pay  their 
f  money  to  hear  you  talk,  not  to  look  at  you !" 

"Pep"  is  the  burden  of  the  fake  producer's  song  and 
his  constant  endeavor  is  to  impress  the  watching  man 
ager  with  the  idea  that  he  shouts  whereof  he  knows. 
I  recall  one  producer,  however,  who  lent  a  little  variety 
to  his  work,  for  the  moment  he  saw  the  manager  com 
ing  in  he  rose  in  his  place  and  shrieked :  "Them  borders ! 
What's  the  matter  with  them  borders!"  And  I  believe 
this  man  actually  received  a  salary  for  his  work. 

By  a  strange  perversion  of  the  English  tongue  the 
word  "production"  has  come  to  signify  merely  the  up 
holstery  of  the  drama,  the  scenery,  costumes,  lighting 
and  incidental  music,  but  it  really  means  a  great  deal 
more  than  all  that.  It  covers  the  selection  of  the  play, 
which  involves  a  knowledge  not  only  of  the  drama  but 
of  the  ever-changing  current  of  popular  taste  as  well, 
the  casting  of  the  play,  the  drilling  of  the  actors  and  the 
elimination  of  the  inferior  ones,  and  also  the  alteration 
and  boiling  down  of  the  manuscript  so  as  to  secure  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  189 

greatest  possible  amount  of  dramatic  wheat  and  the  very 
least  of  the  chaff  of  verbiage. 

The  work  of  the  producer  is  so  smoothly  blended  with 
that  of  the  dramatist  and  the  actor  in  the  representa 
tion  of  a  play  that  the  layman  does  not  know  where  the 
one  begins  and  the  others  end.  When  the  star  of  the 
company  is  his  own  producer  he  is  only  too  apt  to  take 
advantage  of  every  opportunity  thus  afforded  to  exploit 
himself  at  the  expense  of  his  fellow-players.  It  is  not 
every  star  who  knows  that  his  own  efforts  shine  all  the 
better  when  placed  in  what,  from  the  stellar  point  of 
view,  is  considered  competition  with  the  best  of  talent. 
The  actor  who  is  sincere  in  seeking  the  bubble  reputa 
tion  at  the  stellar  mouth  is  subjected  to  a  degree  of  rank 
injustice  unknown  in  any  other  calling.  The  star  can, 
and  not  infrequently  does,  cut  out  his  best  lines  and 
either  appropriate  them  to  his  own  use  or  else  kill  them 
altogether.  He  can  also  minimize  the  force  of  any  words 
coming  from  the  lips  of  a  fellow-player  by  studied  in 
attention,  and  he  can  always  divert  attention  from  others 
by  performing  monkey-tricks  himself.  He  can  play 
every  scene  facing  the  audience  so  as  to  gain  a  reputa 
tion  for  that  "facial  expression"  which  his  associate  can 
not  show  in  the  back  of  his  head.  He  can  compel  the 
rest  of  the  company  to  keep  above  the  key,  which  ma 
terially  heightens  what  the  critics  call  his  "quiet  natural 
method"  or  "reserve  force."  In  presenting  a  series  of 
plays  under  that  fatal  word  "repertoire,"  he  can  show 
himself  one  week  in  long  whiskers  and  the  next  with  a 
false  stomach  and  thus  gain  praise  for  his  "versatility." 
By  these  methods  he  reduces  every  actor  in  his  support 


190  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

to  a  state,  not  unlike  that  of  a  shuttlecock,  passed  to  and 
fro  between  the  battledores  of  varied  stellar  ambitions. 

There  is  one  actress  in  this  country  possessed  of  an 
artistic  conscience  of  such  a  high  order  that  she  always 
regards  a  performance  as  a  whole  and  not  as  a  vehicle 
for  self-exploitation.  So  far  from  seeking  to  minimize 
the  work  of  her  associates  she  encourages  them  to  do 
their  best,  the  result  being  that  her  audiences  leave  the 
theatre  in  which  they  have  been  so  well  entertained  de 
claring  that  she  is  a  great  actress.  The  result  of  this 
blending  of  intelligence  with  the  best  form  of  dramatic 
art,  is  that  her  career,  as  a  star,  which  began  in  1882, 
leaves  her,  not  gasping  out  her  last  breath  in  that  house 
of  refuge  for  senile  art,  the  vaudeville  stage,  but  with 
popularity  as  yet  undimmed  and  herself  possibly  the 
most  distinguished  actress  in  this  country.  To  realize 
what  this  means  we  have  only  to  consider  the  number 
of  stars  blinded  by  a  sense  of  their  own  importance  who 
have  come  and  gone  since  Mrs.  Fiske  made  her  first 
appearance. 

"A  couple  of  nice  girls  that  I  know  are  going  to  appear 
at  Pastor's  next  week  and  if  you  can  say  a  good  word 
for  them  I'll  consider  it  a  favor,"  said  August  Brentano 
to  me  one  day  late  in  the  autumn  of  '79.  I  hope  that  my 
mention  of  this  remote  date  will  not  offend  the  lady 
with  whom  this  anecdote  deals,  but  hers  is  a  case  in 
which  years  are  a  credit,  so  well  have  the  charm  and 
beauty  of  her  youth  been  preserved. 

Fully  aware  of  my  lack  of  musical  knowledge,  I  asked 
a  friend  of  acknowledged  authority  in  such  matters  to 
accompany  me  to  Tony  Pastor's  Theatre  the  following 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  191 

Monday  and  listened  with  more  deference  than  I  shall 
ever  accord  again  to  musical  criticism.  The  first  of  the 
singers  to  appear  was  a  girl  named  Florence  Merton  and 
my  companion  pronounced  her  voice  excellent  and  pre 
dicted  for  her  a  bright  variety  future.  Later  in  the  even 
ing  a  slender,  graceful  and  wonderfully  pretty  and  at 
tractive  young  girl  skipped  out  on  the  stage  and  sang, 
in  what  seemed  to  my  untutored  taste,  a  voice  of  rare 
sweetness,  a  song  about  the  violets  that  bloom  in  the 
vernal  spring.  But  my  friend  shook  his  head  in  grave 
disapproval,  declaring  that  her  voice  lacked  timbre  and 
was  weak  in  the  lower  register,  and  contrived  to  deluge 
my  mind  with  so  many  technical  terms  I  had  never 
heard  of  that  I  was  afraid  to  write  what  I  thought  and 
prepared  a  sapient  paragraph  echoing  his  views,  which 
I  think  was  the  first  notice  ever  received  in  New 
York  by  Lillian  Russell,  whose  previous  appearance  here 
had  been  merely  as  one  of  Ed.  Rice's  chorus  girls. 

But  it  was  not  press  work  that  gave  Miss  Russell  her 
earliest  fame.  Her  own  attractiveness  stirred  theatre 
goers  long  before  the  critics  came  lumbering  into  view 
with  their  words  of  commendation.  Dazzled  by  applause 
and  inexperienced  in  theatrical  affairs  her  mistakes  of 
those  early  days  are  not  to  be  wondered  at.  Her  later 
period  of  work  and  study  have  never  won  for  her  the 
public  recognition  that  they  fairly  deserve.  Her  great 
success  in  comic  opera  was  achieved  by  talent,  industry 
and  a  personality  of  rare  charm.  I  trust  that  these  words 
will  atone  for  the  less  honest  utterance  of  my  callow 
youth. 

One  evening,   I  think  in   1877,   while  calling  at  the 


192  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

house  of  Mr.  Parke  Godwin,  Mr.  Henry  Watterson  of 
Louisville  entered,  bringing  with  him  a  young  woman 
of  rare  beauty  and  frank,  engaging  manners,  who  in 
stantly  won  my  susceptible  heart  and  whom  he  intro 
duced  as  a  native  of  his  own  city  whom  he  wished 
his  New  York  friends  to  know  as  she  was  about  to  make 
her  metropolitan  debut  as  an  actress.  This  was  Miss 
Mary  Anderson  and  before  many  weeks  had  elapsed 
the  whole  town  was  talking  about  her  Juliet.  I  remem 
ber  that  in  the  conversation  that  ensued  Mr.  Watterson 
harked  back  to  the  days  when  he,  too,  had  been  a  player, 
a  fact  that  I  have  never  seen  recorded  in  print. 

Miss  Anderson's  career  was  unique  for  she  had  begun 
at  the  top  of  her  profession  without  undergoing  the  long 
apprenticeship  in  minor  parts  that  other  actresses  have 
been  compelled  to  endure.  I  saw  her  frequently  in  such 
plays  as  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  Ingomar  and  shall  always 
remember  the  rare  charm  of  her  beautiful  presence 
though  at  that  time  I  was  not  competent  to  judge  of  her 
merits  as  an  artist.  She  remained  on  the  stage  for  sev 
eral  years,  playing  nothing  but  classic  roles  and  establish 
ing  herself  firmly  in  the  popular  heart  not  only  as  an 
actress  but  as  a  woman  of  the  finest  personal  character. 
She  left  the  stage  on  encountering  a  blast  of  hostile 
criticism  and  retired  to  private  life  in  England  where  she 
had  already  won  a  high  professional  standing  and  en 
joyed  much  social  success.  Unwittingly  she  exerted  a 
bad  influence  on  the  young  women  of  her  generation,  for 
thousands  of  them  became  convinced  that  they  could 
play  most  difficult  roles,  notably  Juliet,  without  any  pre 
liminary  training,  provided  only  they  had  a  chance,  and 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  193 

it  was  not  long  before  our  stage  was  invaded  by  scores 
of  these  ambitious  ones.  Among  those  whom  I  recall 
were  Adele  Belgarde,  Anna  Boyle,  Helen  Ottolengui, 
Adelaide  Cherie,  Adelina  Gasparini,  Selina  Fetters  and 
Inez  Rochelle,  all  of  whom  appeared  as  Juliet,  except 
ing  Miss  Cherie,  who  essayed  Camille.  Miss  Belgarde 
later  appeared  as  Hamlet  with  but  moderate  success. 

The  most  conspicuous  of  the  new  Juliets  was  Margaret 
Mather  who  had  been  discovered  by  George  Edgar,  an 
actor  known  only  by  his  Lear,  and  whom  J.  M.  Hill, 
made  confident  by  his  success  with  Denman  Thompson, 
which  will  be  described  in  the  next  chapter,  undertook 
to  star.  Hill  placed  Miss  Mather  in  the  Brooklyn  home 
of  John  Habberton,  the  author  of  Helen's  Babies,  for 
purposes  of  study,  and  meanwhile  set  about  the  work  of 
awakening  public  interest  and  curiosity.  On  certain  days 
Miss  Mather  would  repair  to  the  Union  Square  Hotel 
while  her  manager  would  assemble  a  few  newspaper  men 
and  out-of-town  managers  in  order  that  they  might,  as 
he  expressed  it,  "hear  this  wonderful  girl  of  mine  read 
a  few  passages  from  Shakespeare  and  perhaps  recite  a 
poem  or  two  and  afterward  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with 
her."  He  would  always  have  lying  in  wait  three  or  four 
old-time  actors  and  these  he  would  bring  forth  to 
heighten  the  interest  of  the  occasion.  They  would  begin 
by  confidentially  assuring  the  guests  that  they  had  but 
little  faith  in  these  amateurs,  having  seen  so  many  of 
them  fail,  and  that,  if  it  were  not  for  their  confidence  in 
Mr.  Hill's  managerial  acumen,  they  would  not  be 
bothered  to  listen  to  this  one.  Then  the  reading  would 
begin  and  with  it  the  acting.  I  recall  one  aged  histrion 


194  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

who  used  to  startle  the  company  by  crying  out  in  the 
midst  of  a  scene,  "My  God,  is  this  Adelaide  Neilsoncome 
back  to  earth !"  Others  would  wipe  the  tears  from  their 
eyes  or  wring  the  hand  of  the  manager  with  a  few 
broken  words  of  congratulation.  The  effect  of  this  tor 
rent  of  enthusiasm  from  mummers  sceptical  but  a  mo 
ment  before,  was  tremendous. 

Miss  Mather,  as  I  recall  her,  possessed  a  certain  crude 
talent  and  eventually  became  a  paying  star. 

Mr.  Hill's  next  stellar  venture  was  not  so  successful 
and  cost  him  a  good  deal  of  money.  At  this  time  Dion 
Boucicault  was  conducting  a  school  of  acting  in  Palmer's 
Theatre  and  discovered,  among  his  pupils,  a  young 
woman  whom  he  assured  Mr.  Palmer  was  a  "heaven- 
born  genius."  To  which  the  manager  replied:  "Bring 
on  your  heaven-born  genius!  I've  had  nearly  fifteen 
years  of  them." 

On  hearing  the  girl,  whose  name,  I  think,  was  Cora 
Edsall,  Palmer  was  inclined  to  agree  with  Boucicault  in 
his  estimate  of  her  talent  and  before  long  Mr.  Hill  heard 
of  this  new  prodigy,  listened  attentively  to  her  reading, 
and  finally  agreed  to  star  her.  What  was  to  have  been 
her  tour  began  in  Albany  and  I  think  ended  there.  I 
made  the  trip  in  charge  of  the  press-work  and  our  little 
band  included  Steele  Mackaye,  invited  because  he  had  a 
strong  actor-like  face  and  a  great  mane  of  black  hair; 
Pat  Sheedy,  the  gambler,  because  of  his  low  voice  and 
quiet,  refined  appearance ;  the  elderly  critic  of  a  sporting 
paper  because  he  had  long  white  whiskers,  and  the 
dramatists,  Henry  Guy  Carleton  and  James  Roche,  mak 
ing  three  of  that  calling,  including  Mackaye.  Each 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  195 

one  of  these  playwrights  was  careful  not  to  let  either 
one  of  the  other  two  be  closeted  with  Hill  for  fear  he 
would  sell  him  a  play.  Our  little  group  was  organized 
into  an  effective  claque,  led  by  Mackaye,  who  sat  in  the 
very  front  of  the  box  and  made  an  imposing  appear 
ance.  I  remember  that  at  a  certain  moment  he  half  rose 
in  his  seat  and  exclaimed,  "By  the  gods!"  then  started 
a  round  of  applause  which  the  rest  of  us  promptly  took 
up,  the  whiskered  one  in  an  orchestra  seat  beating  lustily 
with  his  umbrella  on  the  floor. 

Mr.  Hill  was  no  niggard  in  the  matter  of  expenses, 
and  we  had  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  during  our  stay 
in  Albany.  He  had  provided  an  excellent  company,  in 
cluding  William  H.  Thompson,  E.  J.  Henley  and  Amy 
Busby,  with  Lorimer  Stoddard  as  stage  manager.  Nor 
was  Mr.  Carleton's  play,  The  Pembcrtons,  without  merit ; 
but  nothing  could  save  the  star,  for  the  truth  was  that 
she  was  an  elocutionist  and  not  an  actress  and  the  two 
are  widely  different.  And  yet  she  had  fooled  two  men  of 
such  great  experience  as  Palmer  and  Boucicault.  Wisely 
enough  Hill  abandoned  all  thought  of  making  her  a 
Juliet,  for  Shakespeare  wrote  for  actors,  and  not  for 
elocutionists,  a  fact  not  yet  known  to  a  great  many  mem 
bers  of  the  theatrical  profession,  nor  to  the  many  savants 
who  style  themselves  his  commentators. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

T  ONG  ago  there  was  situated  on  Greenwich  Avenue 
-L'  near  Twelfth  Street,  the  Columbia  Opera  House, 
a  theatre  of  rather  low  repute  which  more  than  once  was 
raided  by  the  police.  It  was  a  variety  house  and  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  its  sketches  was  called  The  Female 
Bathers,  which  served  to  introduce  a  Yankee  farmer  on 
a  visit  to  New  York.  A  Chicago  merchant  happened  to 
see  this  sketch  one  night  and  was  much  impressed  by 
the  impersonation  of  the  farmer  at  the  hands  of  one 
Denman  Thompson.  He  saw  the  piece  three  or  four 
times,  then  made  Thompson's  acquaintance  and  sug 
gested  that  the  sketch  be  re-written  in  four  acts,  and 
offered  as  a  full  evening's  entertainment  at  first-class 
houses.  To  this  Thompson  agreed  and  the  production 
of  Joshua  Whitcomb  not  only  served  to  introduce  James 
M.  Hill  into  theatrical  affairs,  but  also  gave  us  the  Ameri 
can  rural  drama,  which  has  not  its  exact  counterpart  on 
any  foreign  stage.  In  the  peasant  dramas  of  the  older 
countries  the  audience  is  invited  to  look  down  on  the 
actors  and  note  their  quaintness,  their  humor,  and  other 
humble  qualities,  but  in  Joshua  Whitcomb  and  its  suc 
cessor,  The  Old  Homestead,  as  well  as  in  other  plays  of 
the  same  school,  the  actors  are  presented  on  a  plane  of 
perfect  equality  with  their  audience. 

It  is  interesting  to  remark  in  this  connection  that 

196 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  197 

whereas  those  diversions  of  the  wealthy  classes,  the  New 
Theatre  and  the  Theatre  of  Arts  and  Letters  gave  us 
neither  plays  nor  actors  nor  dramatists  worthy  of  note, 
the  newsboys'  theatre  in  Baxter  Street  and  the  low  variety 
house  on  Greenwich  Avenue,  yielded  two  of  the  most 
original  and  popular  forms  of  amusement  that  we  have 
ever  been  blessed  with. 

There  was  a  much  greater  variety  of  amusement  dur 
ing  my  younger  days  than  modern  New  York  can  offer, 
and  my  investigating  mind  made  me  familiar  with  many 
resorts  of  a  kind  that  do  not  flourish  now.  Chief  of 
these  was  Harry  Hill's  Dance  House,  a  picturesque, 
tumbledown  wooden  building  on  East  Houston  Street, 
near  Broadway.  Its  proprietor  was  a  sturdy  Englishman 
of  the  old-fashioned  sporting  type,  who  prided  himself 
on  his  honesty  and  jealously  upheld  the  reputation  of  his 
house  as  a  place  in  which  no  man  could  be  robbed. 
Many  a  visitor  carrying  more  money  in  his  pockets  than 
was  safe  would  leave  the  bulk  of  it  with  Harry  for  safe 
keeping  while  he  continued  his  revels  there  and  else 
where  and  never  had  any  trouble  in  regaining  it  at  the 
end  of  his  debauch. 

One  end  of  the  building  contained  a  stable  in  which 
Hill  kept  the  curiously  mis-shapen  horse  that  he  used  to 
drive  along  Fifth  Avenue  and  through  Central  Park  on 
pleasant  afternoons,  and  it  is  worthy  of  record  that  even 
before  those  harbingers  of  dawning  art,  the  chromo  and 
the  Rogers  groups,  had  appeared  he  adorned  the  walls 
of  his  dance  hall  with  a  fine  set  of  Hogarth  engravings 
to  be  gazed  at  by  the  nightly  assembly  of  rakes  and  har 
lots.  The  place  had  other  visitors,  too,  and  it  was  said 


198  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

that  no  man  could  show  himself  above  the  surface  of 
metropolitan  life  without  passing  at  least  once  through 
the  rooms  of  Harry  Hill  and  Charley  Delmonico.  The 
dance  hall  had  a  very  small  stage  with  a  few  rags  of 
scenery,  and  here  boxing  matches  took  place  and  many 
players  of  later  fame  appeared.  Weber  and  Fields  have 
played  there  and  so  have  Andrew  Mack,  W.  J.  Scanlan, 
and  many  others.  It  was  here  also  that  John  L.  Sulkvan 
made  his  first  appearance  in  New  York  to  spar  for  a 
purse  of  fifty  dollars  offered  by  Harry  to  anyone  who 
would  stand  in  front  of  him  for  four  rounds. 

Sullivan  came  on  from  Boston  especially  for  this 
event  and  it  is  a  matter  of  record  that  he  seated  him 
self  on  the  steps  of  the  convent  over  the  way  and  would 
not  enter  the  dance  house  until  he  had  counted  a  hundred 
visitors  enter,  when,  knowing  the  admission  to  be  fifty 
cents,  he  calculated  that  the  amount  of  the  purse  was 
actually  in  Hill's  hands.  I  believe  he  won  the  money  in 
the  first  round  and  was  carried  around  the  hall  on  the 
shoulders  of  enthusiasts.  His  opponent  had  been  so  con 
fident  of  winning,  that  earlier  in  the  day  he  had  sent 
his  wife  to  Hill  to  collect  the  money. 

Hill's  was  the  scene  of  another  first  appearance  of  a 
different  nature  for  it  was  there  that  the  Salvation  Army 
held  their  first  meeting  in  America,  having  asked  and 
received  the  proprietor's  permission.  As  a  literal  fact 
the  rough  crowd  that  had  come  to  scoff  remained,  if  not 
to  pray  at  least  to  recognize  the  sincerity  of  the  evangel 
ists,  for  when  the  meeting  was  over  they  passed  the  hat 
and  collected  a  goodly  sum  as  their  contribution  to  the 
cause. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  199 

I  came  to  know  Harry  Hill  quite  well  and  I  seem  to 
hear  his  voice  now  as  he  stood  on  the  platform  accord 
ing  to  his  wont,  to  introduce  the  boxers.  His  invariable 
formula  when  introducing  a  Negro  contestant  was: 
"Mr.  Johnson's  color  is  different  from  ours  but  you'll 
often  find  a  white  heart  under  a  black  skin." 

Still  another  first  appearance  at  this  place  was  electric 
lighting  for  it  was  here  that  Mr.  Edison's  scheme  of 
illumination  was  first  introduced  in  New  York. 

On  the  other  side  of  Houston  Street  were  the  old- 
fashioned  houses  of  call,  the  House  of  Lords,  the  House 
of  Commons  and  Harry  Clifton's.  In  the  last-named, 
meetings  were  held  on  Wednesday  and  Saturday  even 
ings,  not  unlike  those  described  by  Thackeray  in  his 
accounts  of  the  Back  Kitchen,  whence  Costigan  drove 
out  Colonel  Newcome  and  his  son  with  his  obscene  ditty. 
Admission  was  free  and  there  was  excellent  glee-singing 
to  be  heard.  Visitors  were  of  course  expected  to  order 
refreshments  for  the  benefit  of  the  house  and  the  food 
and  drink  were  of  the  best  quality.  Nor  were  the 
waiters  permitted  to  hound  any  one  as  is  customary  in 
the  free  pavilions  at  Coney  Island. 

It  was  at  Clifton's  that  the  tuneful  songs  of  Dave 
Braham  were  popularized  long  before  he  became  the 
musical  director  of  Harrigan  and  Hart,  and  I  recall  at 
least  three  admirable  singers  among  the  rest.  These  were 
Harry  Waldemar,  a  typical  British  music-hall  artist  of 
the  period ;  the  chairman,  Harding,  who  was  also  a  music 
publisher,  and  Johnny  Roach,  an  inimitable  singer  of 
comic  Irish  songs.  Harding's  rendering  of  a  song 
called  "The  Vagabond"  still  lingers  in  my  memory  as 


200  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

does  his  announcement  of  the  singers,  "Give  your  orders 
to  the  waiters,  gents,  and  then  Mr.  Roach  will  oblige 
and  after  him  Mr.  Harry  Waldemar." 

A  place  that  had  a  horrid  fascination  for  me  because 
of  the  depraved  nature  of  its  patrons  was  Owney 
Geoghegan's,  on  the  Bowery.  It  was  crowded  nightly 
with  the  toughest  and  most  disreputable  element  in  the 
city  and  these  were  served  by  waiters  of  unexampled 
ferocity.  It  was  the  favorite  resort  of  professional 
mendicants  and,  once  within  its  walls  the  blind  man  saw 
that  he  got  the  right  change,  the  cripple  laid  aside  his 
crutches  and  the  victim  of  starvation  paid  for  his  drinks 
from  a  full  purse.  Geoghegan's  funeral  was  an  impos 
ing  event.  Two  wives  attended,  and  the  drivers  of  their 
respective  hacks  fought  all  the  way  to  Calvary  for  the 
place  of  precedence  directly  behind  the  hearse,  each 
widow  hoping  that  in  this  fashion  she  could  establish 
conjugal  rights. 

Another  disreputable  resort  was  Armory  Hall  in 
Hester  Street,  kept  by  Billy  McGlory  and  frequented  by 
street  walkers  and  the  males  of  their  species,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  sight  seers  of  a  better  class.  It  was  a  dance 
hall  and  the  waiters  were  always  ready  to  introduce 
strangers  to  desirable  partners.  McGlory  was  a  man  of 
rather  fine  appearance  and  to  him  was  due  the  failure 
of  the  Hotel  Brunswick,  one  of  the  finest  hostelries  that 
New  York  has  ever  known. 

It  happened  in  this  wise.  One  afternoon  in  mid 
winter,  a  well-dressed,  gentlemanly  individual  called 
there  to  arrange  for  a  late  supper  with  which  he  intended 
to  wind  up  a  long  sleigh-ride.  He  offered  a  money 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  801 

deposit,  but  such  was  his  appearance  that  it  was  refused. 
About  two  hours  after  midnight  he  arrived  in  company 
with  such  a  following  as  had  never  passed  the  Bruns 
wick  portals  before  and  although  the  whole  affair  was 
carried  off  decorously  the  matter  got  into  the  papers 
and  from  that  day  the  house  steadily  declined  to  its  fall. 

In  due  course  of  time,  Armory  Hall  was  closed  by 
the  police  and  McGlory  sent  to  prison.  Afterward  he 
conducted  a  livery  stable,  regarding  which  occupation 
he  once  said  to  a  friend  of  mine:  "These  horses  can 
kick  but  thank  God  they  can't  go  to  the  District 
Attorney!" 

There  was  at  this  time  at  the  corner  of  Eighth  Street 
and  Fourth  Avenue,  where  an  entrance  to  the  subway 
now  stands,  a  small  theatre,  reconstructed  from  a  church 
in  which  Patti  first  sang  here  and  where,  later,  Dr. 
McGlynn  preached.  It  was  known  as  Jack  Aberle's,  and 
Lena  Aberle,  the  manager's  daughter,  played  occasional 
engagements  there  as  a  star,  occupying  herself  the  rest 
of  the  time  in  the  box-office.  She  must  have  weighed 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  and  always  played  Camille 
for  her  semi-annual  benefit.  She  favored  moonlight 
effects  and  insisted  on  the  introduction  of  lunar  illumina 
tion  into  every  piece.  It  was  a  ridiculous  little  place 
of  amusement  but  highly  diverting  and  many  a  pleasant 
evening  have  I  passed  there.  The  actors  received  part 
of  their  pay  in  bar-checks  and  were  expected  to  keep 
their  faces  sober  when  Lena's  dying  gasps  shook  the 
frail  scenery.  Nevertheless  two  players  of  later  renown 
graduated  from  Aberle's.  One  of  these  was  Peter  F. 
Dailey,  one  of  the  most  amusing  entertainers  ever  seen 


202  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

on  the  New  York  stage,  and  the  other  was  James  T. 
Powers,  whom  Edward  Harrigan  saw  and  rescued. 
Almost  immediately  Powers  made  a  hit  in  Fun  in  a 
Photograph  Gallery  and  repeated  his  success  in  Lon 
don,  a  most  unusual  experience  for  actors  of  his  gen 
eration. 

Far  more  picturesque  and  interesting  to  me  than  any 
of  the  resorts  that  I  have  named  were  the  opium  joints 
then  springing  into  existence  in  the  purlieus  of  China 
town.  So  far  as  I  know  no  novelist  of  great  distinction 
since  Dickens  has  obtained  from  any  of  such  places  the 
material  in  which  they  were  so  rich.  "Low  life,"  as 
almost  anything  below  Eighth  Street  was  called,  was 
taboo  in  the  Century  and  other  magazines,  and  it  was  a 
waste  of  time  for  writers  who  deemed  themselves  literary 
to  deal  with  such  unsavory  places.  There  was,  however, 
a  Sun  reporter,  named  William  Norr,  who  wrote  for  his 
paper  two  or  three  stories  of  such  a  striking  nature  that 
they  met  with  the  instant  hearty  approval  of  Mr.  Dana, 
who  rewarded  the  author  with  special  compensation. 

I  visited  many  of  these  places  and  although  I  smoked 
the  opium  from  time  to  time  I  never  acquired  the  habit. 
It  was  the  atmosphere  of  the  joint  and  the  conversation 
of  the  frequenters  that  fascinated  me,  and  let  it  be  re 
membered  that  they  enriched  our  language  with  two  bits 
of  slang.  The  pipes  were  made  of  joints  of  bamboo, 
hence  the  word  "joint,"  now  applicable  to  all  sorts  of 
places;  and  "dope"  which,  with  its  derivatives,  is  now 
used  in  common  parlance,  had  its  origin  in  the  following 
fashion. 

Many  years  ago  when  prairie  schooners  were  the  means 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  203 

of  transit  across  the  continent,  there  hung  from  the  axle- 
tree  a  bucket  of  black  wagon  grease  containing  what 
was  called  a  daub  stick  with  which  the  lubricant  was 
applied.  The  earliest  American  frequenters  of  the 
Chinese  joints  in  San  Francisco  were  men  who  had 
crossed  from  the  east  in  these  prairie  schooners  and  as 
the  word  "daub"  had  become  corrupted  into  "dope"  the 
opium  paste  which  looked  exactly  like  the  axle-grease, 
acquired  its  present  name  by  a  quite  natural  process  and 
soon  became  thus  known  in  Pell  Street. 

The  criminal  classes  of  New  York,  including  bunco- 
steerers,  gamblers,  prostitutes,  "con"  men  and  thieves, 
took  to  opium  smoking  as  soon  as  it  was  introduced  here, 
and,  as  the  drug  loosens  the  tongue  and  develops  social 
qualities  rather  than  the  fighting  spirit  engendered  by 
whiskey,  the  conversation  that  I  used  to  listen  to  was 
most  edifying  and  quite  of  another  world  than  any  that 
I  had  thus  far  known.  Members  of  the  dramatic  pro 
fession  were  not  infrequently  to  be  seen  in  those  places 
and  indeed  it  was  with  one  of  the  best  known  actors  of 
his  day  that  I  made  my  first  visit  to  the  joint  under 
Paddy  Martin's  saloon  at  No.  9  Bowery. 

Another  player  who  was  also  a  smoker  was  Pearl 
Eytinge,  a  woman  of  vivacious  charm  and  no  mean  ac 
complishment,  whom  Lester  Wallack  had  in  earlier 
years  declared  to  be  "the  hope  of  the  American  stage." 
I  have  seen  her  lying  in  a  joint  in  Bleecker  Street  read 
ing  poetry  to  a  pickpocket  beside  her ;  I  have  seen  her  on 
Mr.  Wallack's  stage  playing  an  ingenue  part  to  which 
she  was  ill-suited  by  temperament  and  manner  of  life; 
and  I  have  seen  her  at  one  of  the  great  masked  balls  at 


204  FORTY-ODD  YEABS 

the  Academy  of  Music,  the  centre  of  a  group  of  fashion 
able  admirers. 

Pearl's  parentage  was  a  matter  of  doubt  but  she  re 
garded  herself  as  an  off-shoot  of  the  well-known  Eng 
lish  family  of  Ey tinge,  the  most  distinguished  member 
of  which  was  Rose  Eytinge,  the  actress.  It1  is  related 
of  our  off-shoot  that  an  elderly  person  of  benevolent 
aspect,  who  had  been  presented  to  her,  said,  "My  child, 
is  your  father  living  yet?"  To  this  Pearl  made  prompt 
answer:  "No,  not  yet." 

Many  years  after  these  opium  joint  days  I  was  work 
ing  on  a  version  of  "Cinderella"  to  be  given  in  spectacu 
lar  form  at  the  Academy  of  Music  when  Miss  Eytinge 
appeared  with  a  troupe  of  young  Swedish  girls  of  her 
discovery,  whom  she  called  the  "Barrison  Sisters,''  and 
asked  for  an  engagement  for  the  whole  lot,  including 
herself,  at  fifteen  dollars  a  week  each. 

"But,"  I  said,  "I  heard  quite  lately  that  you  had  got 
a  house  and  lot  out  of  a  certain  party.  What  do  you 
want  with  fifteen  dollars?" 

"Because  the  party's  gone  off  and  left  me,"  she  re 
plied,  "and  how  I  got  it  is  quite  a  long  story." 

Two  or  three  of  us  adjourned  with  her  to  a  near-by 
place  of  refreshment  and  for  half  an  hour  we  listened 
to  the  story  of  her  experiences  in  the  spiritualistic  busi 
ness  as  an  associate  of  the  notorious  Madam  Diss  Debar. 
I  gathered  from  her  discourse  that  the  death  notices  in 
the  daily  papers  are  carefully  read  by  professional  medi 
ums  and  that  only  those  of  the  wealthy  are  followed  up. 
So  it  happened  that  the  passing  of  the  wife  of  a  man 
named  Cheseboro,  a  well-known  inventor,  claimed  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

attention  of  Madam  Diss  Debar,  and  one  of  her  "cap 
pers"  was  sent  forth  to  secure  the  attendance  of  the 
bereaved  husband  at  one  of  her  seances.  Meanwhile 
a  photograph  of  the  deceased  lady  was  obtained  and  it 
was  found  that  by  the  judicious  use  of  cosmetics,  Miss 
Eytinge  could  be  made  up  to  resemble  her.  The  night 
came  when  Mr.  Cheseboro  entered  the  dimly  lighted 
room  frequented  by  the  spirits,  was  quickly  recognized 
and  a  messenger  despatched  for  Miss  Eytinge.  Under 
the  skilful  hands  of  the  medium  she  was  made  up  for 
the  part  she  was  to  play  while  the  exact  spot  on  the  green 
baize  carpet  where  she  was  to  stand  was  marked  with 
white  chalk.  The  seance  went  merrily  along  with 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  Abraham  Lincoln  and  Little 
Bright-Eyes  hammering  on  the  table  and  revealing  their 
presence  in  other  spectral  ways. 

"Don't  you  want  to  hear  from  some  of  the  loved  ones 
who  have  gone  before?"  inquired  Cheseboro's  neighbor, 
and  he  bawled  out:  "Is  the  spirit  of  my  lost  darling 
present?"  That  gave  the  office  to  Miss  Eytinge  and  she 
glided  forth  and  stood  just  where  the  faint  light  would 
fall  on  her  veiled  figure. 

"My  darling,  it  is  indeed  you!  Tell  me  if  you  are 
happy!" 

Miss  Eytinge  had  not  been  on  the  turf  twenty  years 
for  nothing.  She  replied  promptly,  "Yes,  but  I  need 
money,"  and  then  and  there  she  secured  one  hundred 
dollars  from  her  prey.  Some  months  later  he  gave  her 
a  house  and  lot,  stipulating  that  she  should  not  have  the 
deeds  recorded  until  he  gave  her  permission,  but  the  next 
morning  when  the  door  of  the  Hall  of  Records  was 


206  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

opened  she  fell  through  with  the  deeds  in  her  hand  and 
that  brought  the  partnership  to  a  close. 

An  eminently  respectable  resort  which  ante-dated  the 
time  of  which  I  write  and  was  of  distinct  educational 
value  was  the  Central  Park  Garden,  at  the  corner  of 
Fifty-ninth  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue,  where  Theodore 
Thomas  gave  open  air  concerts  with  his  fine  orchestra 
and  beer  of  the  finest  quality  was  sold  for  five  cents  a 
mug.  It  was  here  that  Mr.  Thomas  introduced,  on 
certain  nights  in  the  week,  the  music  of  Wagner,  a  num 
ber  of  Germans,  many  of  whom  were  Jews,  agreeing  to 
support  him  by  their  attendance  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
record  that  they  kept  their  promise  faithfully  until  Wag 
ner  gained  a  growing  American  following. 

Of  the  restaurants  and  cafes  of  this  period  few  sur 
vive  save  in  the  memory  of  the  older  generation.  The 
first  Italian  table  d'hote  was  that  of  Moretti,  opened  in 
the  Fifties  at  the  corner  of  Third  Avenue  and  Fourteenth 
Street,  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  supplying  Mario  and 
Grisi,  then  singing  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  with  their 
native  food.  It  was  Moretti  who  introduced  into  this 
country  spaghetti,  olives,  Chianti  and  other  Italian  deli 
cacies,  and  his  name  has  been  perpetuated  on  a  pavement 
in  West  Thirty-fifth  Street  opposite  the  restaurant  which 
he  maintained  in  later  life.  His  dinner  was  so  gener 
ous  that  no  one  save  an  Italian  singer  on  his  off  night 
could  eat  all  of  it.  Martinelli's  in  Third  Avenue  was 
another  early  table  d'hote  and  was  much  frequented  by 
artists,  and  as  the  years  rolled  on  scores  of  them  ap 
peared  in  various  parts  of  the  city. 

Maria's,  founded  at  a  much  later  period  in  McDougall 


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IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  207 

Street,  and  still  existing  much  further  uptown,  was  a 
notable  place  of  refection  in  its  day  and  frequented  by 
the  so-called  bohemian  element.  Clara  Louise  Kellogg, 
Paul  du  Chaillu,  Robert  W.  Chambers,  George  B.  Luks 
and  scores  of  other  friends  of  mine  were  usually  to  be 
found  in  that  little  basement  dining-room.  Luks  was 
at  this  time  drawing  black  and  white  comics  of  remark 
able  humor  in  the  weekly  Truth  and  not  many  saw  in  his 
work  promise  of  the  future  that  lay  before  him  as  a  seri 
ous  genre  painter  in  oil.  The  accompanying  picture, 
drawn  by  him  about  this  time  of  "chicken  night  at 
Maria's"  gives  us  a  taste  of  his  early  quality. 

Half  a  dollar  was  the  usual  price  for  a  table  d'hote 
dinner  at  that  time  and  I  do  not  remember  any  that 
cost  more  than  double  that  sum,  which  was  the  price  at 
Moretti's  and  also  at  the  Cafe  Martin  in  its  earlier  years. 
Martin's  was  the  best  of  the  French  table  d'hotes  and 
they,  too,  were  numerous,  especially  in  the  French 
quarter  south  of  Washington  Square  and  in  the  side 
Streets  off  Sixth  Avenue. 

There  were  chop-houses  in  those  days  with  English  in 
stead  of  German  waiters  and  the  most  famous  of  these 
was  that  of  George  Browne,  whose  first  habitat  was  in 
Fourth  Avenue,  directly  opposite  the  stage  doors  of 
Wallack's  and  the  Union  Square  theatres.  It  was  called 
the  "Green  Room"  and  it  was  there  that  the  Lamb's  Club, 
made  up  largely  of  the  Wallack  company,  had  its  origin. 
Browne  usually  passed  for  an  Englishman  though  he  was 
really  born  in  New  Hampshire,  and  he  occasionally 
played  dialect  parts  on  Mr.  Wallack's  stage.  It  was  said 
that  he  had  a  code  of  signals  by  which  he  announced  to 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

patrons  in  the  audience  the  special  dish  to  be  served  in 
his  chop-house  after  the  performance.  Some  time  dur 
ing  the  Seventies  he  moved  uptown  and  acquired  the 
patronage  of  a  great  many  young  men  like  myself  whom 
he  entertained  by  his  anecdotes  of  his  friends  the  actors, 
'  many  of  whom  he  declared  "might  be  in  any  minute." 

A  more  entertaining  theatrical  "hang-out"  was  the 
Criterion,  kept  by  Charlie  Collins  at  the  northeast  cor 
ner  of  Fourteenth  Street  and  Union  Square.  Among  its 
habitues  I  recall  Charles  R.  Thorne  of  the  Union  Square, 
John  Matthews,  who  had  been  on  the  stage  of  Ford's 
Theatre  the  night  Lincoln  was  killed,  and  innumerable 
old-time  players.  At  precisely  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  free  lunch,  consisting  of  a  wide  segment 
of  cheese  and  a  bowl  of  hard  crackers,  was  placed  upon 
the  counter  across  the  room  from  the  bar.  The  come 
dians  present  made  funny  falls  toward  the  repast  while 
the  tragedians  advanced  with  stately  tread,  and  in  an 
incredibly  short  space  of  time,  nothing  remained  of  the 
banquet  but  the  rind  of  the  cheese  which  by  some  daily 
miracle  still  maintained  an  upright  position,  and  a  hand 
ful  of  impalpably  fine  cracker  dust  at  the  bottom  of 
the  bowl. 

The  rent  of  the  place  was  collected  by  a  local  poli 
tician  who  acted  as  agent  for  the  estate  and  Charlie,  who 
was  a  master  of  strategic  finance,  found  it  cheaper  to 
get  him  drunk  than  to  pay.  Sometimes  he  was  left  lying 
on  a  sofa  in  a  back  room  surrounded  by  empty  bottles 
which  he  was  supposed  to  have  ordered  and  the  cost  of 
which  was  deducted  from  the  rent. 

The  Maison  Doree  was  the  earliest  of  many  attempts 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  209 

to  encroach  on  the  patronage  of  Delmonico's.  It  was 
situated  on  the  south  side  of  Union  Square,  west  of 
Broadway,  and  some  of  the  gilding  on  the  facade  of  the 
building  was  still  visible  in  quite  recent  years.  But 
Delmonico's  was  already  firmly  established  in  public 
favor  and  this  enterprise,  and  many  other  similar  ones 
that  succeeded  it,  failed. 

The  first  of  the  Delmonicos  came  to  this  country  in 
the  train  of  Thomas  Addis  Emmett,  who  emigrated  after 
the  hanging  of  his  brother  Robert.  Having  established 
himself  in  a  modest  shop  that  proved  profitable,  Del- 
monico  leased  larger  premises  and  some  years  later  a 
successor  of  his  name  conducted  what  is  now  the  Stevens 
House,  where  my  father  boarded,  I  think  in  the  Forties, 
for  four-fifty  a  week.  From  that  time  descent  has  always 
been  from  uncle  to  nephew  until  the  dynasty  ceased  with 
the  death  of  the  last,  Charles. 

Delmonico  came  from  the  province  of  Ticino,  in 
Italian  Switzerland,  whence  have  come  many  of  the  best 
restaurateurs  of  the  world,  among  them,  one  Solari, 
who  brought  with  him  a  letter  to  the  then  reigning  Del 
monico  and  after  a  number  of  years  opened  a  place  of 
his  own  in  University  Place.  Delmonico  had  always 
been  very  strict  in  regard  to  the  reputation  of  his  house 
and  would  never  serve  a  meal  in  a  private  dining-room 
to  less  than  three  persons,  no  matter  how  well-known 
they  might  be.  On  one  occasion  August  Belmont  ordered 
a  dinner  in  one  of  these  rooms  for  himself,  his  wife 
and  an  expected  guest.  The  latter  failed  to  appear  and 
finally  Mr.  Belmont  summoned  a  waiter  and  bade  him 
serve  for  two.  The  servitor  informed  the  head-waiter 


210  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

who  in  turn  consulted  Mr.  Delmonico  and  the  latter 
went  at  once  to  Mr.  Belmont,  perhaps  the  most  impor 
tant  of  his  patrons,  and  explained  that  he  could  not,  in 
justice  to  himself,  violate  a  law  that  he  had  made  for 
the  especial  benefit  of  just  such  honored  persons  as  Mr. 
Belmont  and  his  wife.  The  financier  yielded  the  point 
and  afterward  revenged  himself  by  making  bets  with 
his  friends  that  they  could  not  be  entertained  with  fewer 
than  two  guests  in  a  private  room. 

In  the  strict  observance  of  this  law,  Solari  saw  his 
opportunity  and  conducted  his  own  restaurant  in  such 
a  manner  that  those  who  dined  in  its  cabinets  particuliers, 
never  had  any  cause  for  complaint,  either  on  that  account 
or  because  of  the  cuisine. 

But  these  establishments  were  beyond  the  means  of 
the  young  men  with  whom  I  associated  and  we  were 
more  likely  to  be  found  at  a  French  or  Italian  table 
d'hote  or  in  such  hostelries  as  the  Sinclair  House  at 
Eighth  Street  and  Broadway,  Mouquin's  in  Fulton  Street, 
or  at  one  of  the  many  excellent  English  chop-houses. 
The  Puck  staff  used  to  lunch  at  Koster  and  Bial's  in 
Park  Place,  while  Park  Row  reporters  patronized  Hitch 
cock's,  famous  for  its  butter-cakes  and  beef  and  beans, 
or  at  Nash  and  Crook's  in  Nassau  Street.  It  was  said 
that  a  single  meal  in  Hitchcock's  would  convert  a  journal 
ist  into  a  newspaper  man. 

Koster  and  Bial  had  their  beginnings  in  the  basement 
of  the  Tribune  Building,  or  at  least  it  was  there  that  they 
achieved  their  first  notoriety.  Mr.  Dana  of  the  Sun,  who 
was  at  that  time  remorselessly  attacking  Whitelaw  Reid, 
denounced  him  with  a  new  vigor  for  permitting  the  sale 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  211 

of  rum  on  premises  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Horace 
Greeley,  who  had  been  a  strong  advocate  of  teetotalism. 
Thus  the  fame  of  the  "tall  tower  rum  shop"  was  spread 
abroad  to  the  great  profit  of  its  proprietors.  Later 
Messrs.  Koster  and  Bial  opened  their  music-hall  in  West 
Twenty-third  Street,  under  the  direction  of  Bial's  brother 
Rudolph,  an  accomplished  musician.  After  his  death, 
vaudeville  was  introduced  and  it  was  here  that  Car- 
mencita  created  a  furor.  The  dancer  had  already  ap 
peared  on  Broadway  without  attracting  attention  and 
had  been  secured  for  Twenty-third  Street  at  moderate 
cost.  I  entered  the  place  one  night  with  Julian  Ralph 
and  he  became  so  deeply  impressed  with  her  dancing,  that 
he  wrote  an  article  in  the  Sun  that  literally  brought  the 
town  to  her  nimble  feet.  Sargent  painted  her  portrait; 
fashion  saw  her  by  invitation  in  Chase's  studio  and  then 
flocked  to  the  music  hall  to  see  her  again. 

The  Cafe  Martin  was  one  of  the  few  first-class  res 
taurants  in  New  York  in  which  Negroes  were  constantly 
entertained.  They  were  well  mannered,  well  dressed  and 
seemed  more  like  blackened  Frenchmen  than  Africans. 
Most  of  them  were  well-to-do  Haitians  and  their  pres 
ence  never  offended  the  other  patrons.  The  Cafe  Martin 
was  the  headquarters  of  the  local  French  colony  and  it 
was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  Parisian  cafe  which  the 
town  has  known.  Madame  Martin  presided  at  the  comp- 
toir  and  cards  and  dominos  were  played  at  the  little 
marble  tables. 

The  better  class  of  Austrians  made  the  Cafe  Fleisch- 
mann,  at  Tenth  Street  and  Broadway,  their  favorite 
house  of  call.  Situated  on  property  belonging  to  Grace 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Church,  it  was  leased  with  the  understanding  that  neither 
malt  nor  alcoholic  beverages  should  be  sold  on  the  ground 
floor,  but  there  was  a  cafe  upstairs  where  everything 
could  be  obtained.  Established  at  the  time  of  the  Cen 
tennial  Exposition,  its  specialties  were  Vienna  rolls  and 
Vienna  coffee  and  its  cuisine,  in  other  respects,  was  ex 
cellent.  In  the  cafe  was  situated  the  round  table,  called 
by  Jim  Huneker,  "the  philosophers'  table,"  and  to  which 
I  used  to  refer  as  the  local  Reichstadt.  Among  those 
who  gathered  daily  about  this  board  were  Anton  Seidl, 
Louis  Fleischmann,  the  originator  of  the  New  York 
bread-line;  Dr.  Bleyer,  who  with  Mr.  Fleishmann,  con 
tributed  generously  to  the  maintenance  of  the  Thalia 
Theatre;  Heinrich  Conried,  later  the  Director  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House;  Carl  Herrmann,  the  man 
ager  of  the  Thalia  Theatre ;  Emanuel  Lederer,  a  German 
actor  of  the  old  Stadt  Theatre  company,  who  had  first 
suggested  to  Edwin  Booth  the  feasibility  of  a  German 
tour,  and  Carl  Hauser,  already  described.  Mr.  Lederer 
dealt  in  plays  and  operas  and  was  an  authority  on  the 
history  of  the  European  stage.  He  knew  every  scene 
in  every  play  and  was  always  quick  to  recognize  anything 
like  plagiarism  on  the  part  of  an  American  author. 

Another  resort  in  which  I  spent  many  an  evening  was 
a  cafe  kept  by  an  Italian  named  Buchignani  in  Third 
Avenue  near  Fifteenth  Street  and  much  frequented  by 
some  of  the  singers  and  musicians  of  the  Academy  of 
Music.  Its  proprietor  was  a  man  of  education  who  had 
been  the  Librarian  of  the  House  of  Representatives  in 
his  day  and  had  also  undertaken  certain  foreign  missions 
of  a  confidential  nature  for  President  Lincoln.  He  was 


il 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

agreeable,  well  informed  and  kindly  and  one  could  always 
find  good  company  in  his  little  saloon.  I  remember  that 
one  afternoon  while  I  was  sitting  there,  two  or  three  ex 
cited  Italians  entered  and  fell  into  earnest  conversation 
with  "Buck."  After  their  departure  he  explained  their 
errand.  It  seemed  that  Ettore  Barili,  the  half-brother  of 
Adelina  Patti,  and  the  man  to  whom  she  owed  more  for 
her  musical  education  and  early  opportunities  than  she 
did  to  anyone  else,  had  just  died  in  poverty  and  his 
friends  had  been  up  to  the  Windsor  Hotel  to  ask  Adelina 
to  help  bury  him.  This  the  great  singer  had  refused  to 
do,  saying  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  "When  he  had 
money  why  didn't  he  save  it  ?"  It  was  George  Washing 
ton  Childs  of  Philadelphia  who  paid  for  the  interment. 
I  may  add  that  Patti's  other  half-brother  was  employed 
at  about  this  time  as  a  dish-washer  at  Riccadonna's  on 
Union  Square. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MY  entrance  into  Park  Row  was  almost  coincident 
with  the  appearance  of  a  new  journalistic  force 
that  was  destined  to  prove  as  revolutionary  as  that  of  the 
leg-drama  in  the  business  of  theatricals.  That  new  force 
was  newspaper  illustration  and  it  came  to  us  from  a 
Russian  hand  and  through  one  of  those  chance  hap 
penings  that  so  often  turn  the  tide  of  affairs. 

It  was  in  1878  that  Valerian  Gribayedoff,  a  grand- 
nephew  of  a  distinguished  poet  of  that  name,  arrived  in 
New  York  and  sought  employment  in  Park  Row.  Born 
in  Russia  and  educated  there  and  in  Chiselhurst,  Eng 
land,  he  had  made  his  way  to  South  America,  served  as 
a  drummer-boy  in  a  Chilean  revolution  and  worked  his 
passage  to  New  York  on  a  sailing  vessel  by  decorating 
the  captain's  cabin.  After  earning  his  living  as  best  he 
could  for  a  few  years,  he  joined  the  staff  of  the  penny 
Truth,  recently  started  by  Josh  Hart.  Speaking  many 
languages  he  found  much  exercise  for  his  talents  at 
Castle  Garden,  where  he  was  quite  sure  to  discover 
among  every  boatload  of  immigrants  an  exiled  noble 
worthy  of  a  "write-up"  in  Mr.  Hart's  sensational  paper. 
The  time  came,  however,  when  his  employer  informed 
him  that  he  had  had  enough  of  these  dubious  noblemen 
and  unless  he  could  unearth  one  of  real  distinction  he 
might  look  elsewhere  for  work.  It  was  with  a  sorrow- 

214 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  215 

ful  heart  then  that  the  young  man  made  his  way  to 
Castle  Garden,  where  he  arrived  just  in  time  to  see  a 
person  of  sinister  countenance  and  wearing  the  uniform 
of  a  Russian  official,  sneak  ashore  with  a  look  of  appre 
hension  on  his  face.  The  man  nearly  fainted  with  dis 
may  when  Gribayedoff  addressed  him  in  his  native  tongue 
but  he  cheered  up  on  learning  that  he  was  to  be  written 
up  as  a  prince  and  warned  that  he  must  live  up  to  his 
rank.  He  was  then  led  into  the  presence  of  Hart  and 
the  latter  was  assured  that  this  was  a  real  prince  as  could 
readily  be  seen  by  his  uniform,  and  his  discoverer  was 
permitted  to  exploit  him  to  the  extent  of  a  column. 

The  next  day  Hart  entered  the  office  and  exclaimed: 
"Look  a-here,  Grib !  That's  the  helluva  Rooshian  prince 
you  brought  in  here  yesterday !" 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  inquired  the  other  with 
sinking  heart. 

"He's  up  there  at  the  corner  selling  collar-buttons," 
retorted  Hart. 

It  happened  that  the  very  next  day  I  dropped  in  at 
the  office  of  Truth,  to  which  I  was  an  occasional  con 
tributor,  and  found  "Grib"  making  a  pen  and  ink  copy 
of  a  photograph.  In  answer  to  my  query  he  said,  "I've 
induced  them  to  try  a  new  experiment  here  and  print 
pictures  in  the  paper." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  modern  illustrated  daily 
journalism  in  this  country.  The  Graphic,  which  pre 
ceded  it,  had  used  a  slow  process  and  failed  after  sink 
ing  immense  sums  of  money,  but  GribayedorFs  portraits 
— he  had  an  extraordinary  knack  at  catching  a  likeness — 
caught  the  popular  fancy  at  once  and  it  was  not  long 


216  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

before  he  opened  an  office  for  the  purpose  of  supplying 
all  the  newspapers.  The  half-tone  process,  now  gener 
ally  used,  had  not  then  been  invented  and  it  was  neces 
sary  to  copy  all  photographs  with  pen  and  ink.  As  his 
business  increased,  Gribayedoff  engaged  an  assistant 
named  Anthony;  then,  fearing  that  the  latter  would 
master  the  art  in  its  entirety  and  set  up  a  rival  shop, 
he  limited  his  work  to  the  putting  on  of  whiskers  and 
eyebrows,  in  which  work  the  young  man  soon  acquired 
rare  skill.  From  this  time  on,  Anthony's  interest  in  pub 
lic  characters  was  limited  to  their  hirsute  adornments. 
He  would  hang  around  Park  Row  waiting  for  some  one 
to  come  into  the  public  eye  by  death,  sensation  or  politi 
cal  nomination.  "Has  he  whiskers?"  he  would  exclaim 
and,  if  assured  in  the  affirmative  would  hurry  to  Grib's 
office  and  set  to  work. 

Joseph  Pulitzer,  who  entered  the  field  of  metropolitan 
journalism  soon  after  this,  was  the  first  to  realize  the 
enormous  possibilities  of  this  new  method  of  giving  an 
added  interest  to  the  news  of  the  day. 

The  World,  under  the  competent  guidance  of  Man- 
ton  Marble  and  William  Henry  Hurlbert,  had  been  witty 
and  scholarly,  but  it  had  lost  money,  partly  through  the 
scarcity  of  those  capable  of  appreciating  wit  and  scholar 
ship  and  partly  because  it  was  believed  to  be  under  the 
influence  of  Jay  Gould.  Its  staff  included  Ivory  Cham 
berlain,  a  journalist  of  real  distinction  and  fine  literary 
taste,  whose  son,  Samuel  Chamberlain,  I  came  to  know 
intimately  in  later  years;  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  the 
poet;  William  C.  Brownell,  now  a  literary  adviser  of 
the  Scribners  and  a  critic  of  established  reputation;  and 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  217 

George  T.  Lanigan,  one  of  the  truest  humorists  of  his 
generation  and  the  author  of  the  Out  of  the  World 
Fables,  and  many  poems,  including  The  Ahkoond  of 
Swat. 

While  my  sister  and  I  were  collecting  material  for 
an  anthology  of  poetry  that  we  called  Every  Day  in  the 
Year,  we  came  across  an  interesting  and  little-known  cir 
cumstance  in  regard  to  the  last-named  poem.  Early  in 
the  year  of  January,  1876,  the  ruler  of  a  remote  eastern 
principality  died  after  a  reign  that  had  been  so  long 
and  peaceful  that  very  few  persons  outside  of  the  Brit 
ish  Foreign  Office  had  ever  heard  of  either  Swat  or  its 
venerable  ruler  the  Ahkoond.  At  this  time  the  cable 
service  was  new  and  the  Associated  Press  did  not  know 
exactly  what  news  was  worth  sending  across  the  ocean 
and  what  was  not  and  when  the  despatch  containing  the 
tidings  reached  the  World  office,  Lanigan,  who  was  on 
the  night  desk,  hunted  in  vain  through  the  encyclopaedias 
for  information  from  which  to  prepare  a  fitting  obituary. 
The  name  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor  and  the  next 
morning  he  wrote  the  verses  beginning : 

"What,  what,  what, 
What's  the  news  from  Swat? 
Sad  news, 
Bad  news, 

Comes  by  the  cable  led 
Through  the  Indian  Ocean's  bed, 
Through  the  Persian  Gulf,  the  Red 
Sea  and  the  Med- 
Iterrannean — he's  dead : 
The  Ahkoond  of  Swat  is  dead !" 

The  despatch  was  printed  at  the  same  time  in  the  Eng 
lish  papers  and  the  funny  name  appealed  to  another 


218  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

humorous  writer,  Edward  Lear,  and  he  at  once  pre 
pared  a  poem  which  closely  resembled  that  of  the  Amer 
ican  writer  and  began: 

"Who,  or  why,  or  which,  or  what 
Is  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat? 

"Is  he  tall  or  short  or  dark  or  fair? 
Does  he  sit  on  a  stool  or  a  sofa  or  chair, 
Or  squat 
The  Ahkoond  of  Swat?" 

Baron  de  Grimm  was  working  for  the  Evening  Tele- 
gram,  but  his  efforts  were  chiefly  in  the  way  of  cartoon 
and  caricature,  both  marked  with  a  distinct  German 
flavor.  It  was  Pulitzer  who  eagerly  seized  upon  the  idea 
of  illustrating  the  columns  of  the  World  with  photo 
graphs  and  he  extended  his  sales  by  printing  in  his  Sun 
day  issue  pictures  and  "write-ups"  of  leading  citizens, 
their  wives  and  daughters.  He  afterward  classified  the 
inhabitants  according  to  their  several  occupations,  and 
straightway  his  Sunday  columns  glistened  with  portrait 
groups  of  Newark  barbers  and  Stamford  plumbers. 
Pulitzer  had  been  a  very  poor  man  and  his  rise  to  the 
eminence  that  he  attained  in  later  life  was  an  extraordi 
nary  achievement.  Because  of  his  early  struggles  he 
always  retained  a  sincere  and  understanding  sympathy 
with  the  poor  toiler.  His  eyesight  failed  in  his  later 
years,  though  it  was  generally  believed  in  the  office  that 
he  could  see  more  than  he  professed  to,  but  his  brain 
remained  unclouded  to  the  last.  That  was  why  the  excel 
lence  of  his  editorial  page — a  quality  which  has  long 
survived  him — was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  frightful 
appearance  of  the  Sunday  issue  with  its  sensational  pic- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  219 

tures  and  crude  colors.  Every  editorial  was  read  to 
him  each  day  by  a  secretary,  but  no  human  tongue  could 
describe  what  the  Sunday  supplement  looked  like. 

Another  element  that  edged  its  way  into  Park  Row 
about  this  time — at  least  I  think  it  was  previously  un 
known — was  the  fungus  growth  called  "office  politics," 
than  which  no  more  demoralizing  influence  in  a  news 
paper  staff  can  be  imagined.  In  later  years  the  growth 
of  this  fungus  has  been  nourished  by  the  absenteeism  of 
newspaper  proprietors  and  the  sprouting  on  their  heads 
of  those  gray  hairs  that  breed  suspicion.  The  high 
salaries  paid  in  recent  years  to  men  holding  executive 
positions  have  also  contributed  to  this  evil,  for  the 
shrewd  office  politician  devotes  more  attention  to  holding 
his  own  job,  securing  an  increased  salary  and  downing 
those  whom  he  regards  as  his  rivals,  than  he  does  to  the 
interests  of  the  paper.  For  this  reason  it  is  fatal  for 
an  ambitious  young  newspaper  worker  to  attract  the 
favorable  attention  of  his  employer,  for,  sooner  or  later, 
the  hands  of  those  clothed  in  brief  authority  will  be 
turned  against  him.  And  the  evil  machinations  will  be 
conducted  so  smoothly  and  the  malice  so  carefully  veiled 
that  even  the  most  experienced  proprietor  will  be  unable 
to  detect  the  animus. 

The  newspaper  proprietor  who  spends  his  time  abroad 
is  never  entirely  cut  off  from  communication  with  at  least 
two  or  three  of  his  employees  and  these,  so  zealous  is 
their  devotion  to  his  service,  are  prone  to  regret  that 
"Jones  is  his  own  worst  enemy"  or  that  "the  unfortunate 
state  of  Smith's  health  necessitates  his  frequent  absence 
from  the  office."  I  recall  the  case  of  one  journalist  of 


220  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

greater  vigor  than  experience,  who  was  artfully  encour 
aged  by  the  members  of  the  little  cabal  arrayed  against 
him,  to  undertake  various  activities  without  regard  to 
their  cost,  and  these  plotters  were  unanimous  in  their 
approval  when  he  proposed  to  give  a  series  of  expensive 
dinners  as  a  means  of  luring  citizens  of  distinction  to 
his  interviewing  pen.  The  office  politicians  also  voiced 
their  approval  in  the  letters  sent  to  their  employer,  a 
man  of  well-known  parsimony.  They  alluded  to  the 
splendor  of  these  banquets,  the  good  taste  displayed  in 
the  selection  of  rare  wines  and  delicacies  and  said  that 
the  distinguished  citizens  were  all  highly  pleased  with  the 
innovation.  Thereupon  the  proprietor  of  the  paper  paid 
close  attention  to  the  interviews,  not  one  of  which  was 
of  the  slightest  value,  though  the  writer  thereof  had 
been  craftily  assured  that  they  were  "great  stuff." 
Before  long  the  enterprising  journalist  was  working  else 
where. 

I  trust  I  may  be  excused  for  mentioning  a  case  that 
concerned  me  personally,  although  it  was  without  dis 
astrous  effect.  While  I  was  working  on  the  Herald, 
many  years  later  than  the  period  with  which  I  am  now 
dealing,  Mr.  Bennett,  then  returning  to  Paris  from  one 
of  his  periodical  visits  to  New  York,  appointed  me  by 
wireless  from  the  steamer  to  a  post  on  the  editorial 
council,  and  a  few  days  later  there  appeared  in  another 
paper  a  paragraph  to  this  effect: 

"Mr.  James  L.  Ford,  whose  able  literary  criticisms 
have  done  much  to  enhance  the  value  of  the  Herald,  has 
been  placed  on  the  editorial  council  of  that  journal  by 
the  express  order  of  its  proprietor.  Mr.  Bennett  has 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  221 

always  desired  to  be  represented  in  the  council  by  a  close 
personal  friend,  and  it  is  in  that  capacity,  as  well  as 
through  his  literary  ability  that  Mr.  Ford  assumes  what 
is  likely  to  become  a  permanent  position.  His  portrait 
recently  appeared  in  a  magazine  among  a  group  entitled, 
'Moulders  of  Public  Opinion.' ' 

It  was  with  a  heart  filled  with  dismay  that  I  showed 
this  bit  of  amiable  eulogy  to  John  Burke,  a  Herald  col 
league  of  vast  experience  in  Park  Row.  He  read  it 
carefully  and  then  handed  it  back  saying:  "Jim,  that's 
one  of  the  worst  cracks  ever  delivered  in  this  town. 
Find  out  who  wrote  it  and  you'll  know  where  at  least 
one  of  your  enemies  lives." 

The  malice  in  the  paragraph  lay  in  two  sentences, 
that  in  which  allusion  was  made  to  my  personal  intimacy 
with  my  employer  and  that  which  denoted  my  appear 
ance  in  a  magazine  as  a  "Moulder  of  Public  Opinion/' 
and  I  doubt  not  that  even  before  I  read  it  the  kind  hand 
of  its  author  had  mailed  it  to  the  Paris  office.  As  I  had 
never  spoken  to  Mr.  Bennett  but  once  in  my  life,  it  was 
judged  that  he  would  suspect  me  of  boasting  of  our 
intimate  personal  relations  and  assuming  superior 
authority  as  a  controlling  influence  in  the  office.  More 
over  no  newspaper  proprietor  likes  to  see  his  employees 
featured  in  a  magazine  for  their  influence  on  the  policy 
of  the  paper. 

There  was  one  newspaper  in  town  in  which,  thanks 
to  the  almost  constant  presence  of  its  chief  editor  and 
the  firm  rule  of  Chester  S.  Lord,  its  managing  editor  at 
the  time  with  which  I  deal,  office  politics  was  never 
known  to  show  its  malignant  face.  Charles  A.  Dana  was 


222  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

at  this  time  the  leading  editor  of  the  town  and  the  New 
York  Sun,  consisting  of  but  four  pages,  a  great  and 
growing  force  in  journalism.  It  was  impossible  to  work 
for  the  Sun  without  being  conscious  of  Mr.  Dana's 
critical  eye.  The  first  time  I  ever  wrote  for  him  I  took 
up  my  pen  with  a  feeling  of  awe  such  as  I  had  never 
before  experienced.  Two  days  later  I  received  an 
envelope  containing  nothing  but  a  clipping  from  my 
matter  with  the  phrase  "none  are"  sharply  underscored. 
I  have  never  used  it  since. 

Mr.  Dana  was  a  man  of  fine  literary  taste  and  knew 
a  poem  when  he  saw  it.  One  has  only  to  study  his 
anthology,  "The  Household  Book  of  Poetry,"  compiled 
when  he  was  a  comparatively  young  man,  to  wonder 
what  he  would  have  thought  of  certain  fake  bards  of 
to-day.  Possessed  of  a  vigorous  mind,  great  political 
knowledge  and  a  noble  capacity  for  hating,  he  was  easily 
the  leading  figure  in  his  profession.  He  had  two 
weaknesses,  however,  and  many  were  they  who  success 
fully  played  on  them.  Snakes  and  queer  foreigners  had 
an  irresistible  appeal  for  him,  and  George  Starr,  who  later 
became  the  managing  director  of  the  Barnum  show  and 
at  this  time  was  conducting  a  museum  on  Broadway, 
could  always  get  a  column  in  the  Sun  by  judiciously 
allowing  one  of  his  pythons  to  escape.  Queer  for 
eigners  speaking  outlandish  tongues  could  always  worm 
their  way  into  Mr.  Dana's  private  office  and  not  infre 
quently  into  his  home.  In  this  way  more  than  one  fakir 
succeeded  in  making  use  of  the  Sun's  columns. 

Mr.  James  Gordon  Bennett  was  at  this  time  a  domi 
nant  force  in  American  journalism.  He  knew  that  to 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  223 

make  money  it  was  necessary  first  to  spend  it  prodigally. 
His  motto  was  to  "keep  the  people  guessing,"  and  for 
years  the  Herald  was  the  most  talked  of  journal  in 
America,  if  not  in  the  world.  Living  abroad  most  of 
the  time  and  frequently  appearing  in  New  York  with 
terrifying  suddenness,  he  was  a  mysterious  and  sinister 
figure  in  the  eyes  of  his  subordinates.  His  home-coming 
always  presaged  disaster  to  somebody,  for  what  he 
called  "shaking  'em  up"  always  meant  shaking  some 
one  out. 

A  story  that  aptly  illustrates  some  of  his  peculiarities 
and  which  I  now  feel  privileged  to  relate,  I  had  from 
the  lips  of  Mr.  Samuel  S.  Chamberlain,  for  many  years 
Mr.  Bennett's  secretary  and  close  companion  and  one 
of  the  ablest  men  in  the  profession  of  journalism. 

On  one  occasion,  while  living  in  Paris,  Mr.  Bennett 
began  one  of  his  periodical  drinking  bouts,  of  which 
fact  his  secretary  took  prompt  notice  when  summoned  to 
his  presence.  "Sam,"  said  his  chief  with  characteristic 
unexpectedness,  "I  am  tired  of  all  this  talk  of  the  Herald 
being  controlled  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  of 
the  number  of  Trinity  College  men  on  its  staff.  Now  I 
want  you  to  write  an  editorial  that  will  put  us  right 
before  the  public  and  show  that  we  have  no  affiliation 
with  Rome.  Attack  the  Catholic  Church,  its  monaster 
ies,  nunneries  and  schools,  and  make  it  as  strong  as  you 
can.  Write  the  editorial  and  bring  it  to  me  this  evening." 

Of  long  experience  in  dealing  with  the  various  moods 
of  his  employer,  Chamberlain  retired  and  did  precisely 
what  he  had  done  on  previous  occasions.  That  is  to  say, 
he  wrote  a  short  editorial  in  such  a  vigorous  style,  that 


224  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

he  thought  Mr.  Bennett  would  see  at  once  that  it  was 
impossible  and  decide  not  to  cable  it  to  America.  In 
deed,  it  was  quite  possible  that  he  might  forget  all  about 
it  by  nightfall.  That  evening  he  called  as  requested  and 
tried  to  lead  the  conversation  into  safe  and  peaceful 
channels,  but,  with  a  keen  look  in  his  eye,  his  chief  in 
quired  if  he  had  followed  his  directions,  and  the  docu 
ment  was  unwillingly  produced  and  read  aloud.  It  was 
as  strong  as  a  skilled  pen  could  make  it  and  was  headed, 
"To  Hell  with  the  Pope !"  which  Mr.  Bennett  pronounced 
admirable.  Such  phrases  as,  'Tear  down  the  mon 
asteries  !"  "Drive  out  the  monks !"  and  "Let  us  have  no 
politics  from  Rome!"  proved  vastly  pleasing  to  the 
listener. 

"Now,  Sam/'  he  said,  as  the  recital  came  to  a  close, 
"you've  fooled  me  many  times  before,  but  you're  not 
going  to  do  it  this  time.  We'll  cable  this  to-night." 

"Of  course  we  will !"  exclaimed  Sam,  reaching  for  his 
hat.  "I'll  take  it  to  the  cable  office  at  once." 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  the  other,  "we'll  go  down  there 
together  and  I'll  see  this  thing  on  its  way  myself." 

Mr.  Bennett  turned  in  the  message  with  his  own  hand, 
but  the  moment  his  secretary  could  escape  from  him  he 
rushed  back  to  the  office  in  the  hope  of  intercepting  it; 
but  to  do  this  he  was  obliged  to  call  upon  the  chief  of 
the  cable  service  at  his  home  and  to  obtain  his  written 
order  for  its  cancellation. 

Not  until  ten  days  later,  during  which  time  he  carried 
the  editorial  in  his  pocket,  was  Sam  summoned  to  the 
presence  of  his  chief,  whom  he  found  in  bed,  recovering 
from  his  potations.  Almost  the  first  thing  he  said  was : 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  225 

"Didn't  we  send  an  editorial  on  the  Catholic  Church  to 
New  York  a  few  days  ago?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  other  as  he  handed  it  over,  "I 
thought  it  wasn't  strong  enough  so  I  got  it  back  from 
the  operator  with  a  view  to  letting  you  read  it  over  again 
quite  carefully." 

Bennett  read  the  caption  and  a  few  sentences  and  his 
face  turned  as  white  as  the  pillow  on  which  it  lay.  He 
made  no  comment  at  the  moment  but  a  week  later,  when 
he  and  his  secretary  were  out  driving,  he  stopped  at  a 
jewelry  store  and  purchased  a  beautiful  cats-eye  ring 
which  he  placed  on  the  finger  of  the  man  who  had  saved 
him  from  the  consequences  of  his  own  drunken  folly. 

I  did  not  know  Bennett  in  the  Eighties,  but  toward 
the  close  of  his  life,  when  I  became  the  literary  editor 
and  one  of  the  editorial  writers  of  the  Herald,  I  came 
to  know  him  quite  well.  I  believe  him  to  have  been  one 
of  the  really  great  journalists  of  this  country,  for 
although  the  Herald  was  founded  by  his  father,  a  strug 
gling  man,  to  the  son,  born  and  reared  in  luxury,  fell 
the  more  difficult  task  of  keeping  it  in  the  lead  for  a 
great  many  years.  It  has  often  been  said  that  his  long 
residence  abroad  rendered  Mr.  Bennett  indifferent  to 
the  claims  of  his  own  country  but  I  recall  one  letter, 
written  to  a  member  of  his  staff,  which  reveals  him  in 
a  different  light.  He  said:  "My  attitude  on  foreign 
matters,  which  is  often  called  changeable,  and  is,  I  be 
lieve,  frequently  misunderstood,  is  simply  this.  If  a 
nation  is  friendly  to  this  country,  I  wish  the  Herald  to 
be  friendly  to  that  nation,  but  if  a  nation  shows  an  un 
friendly  policy,  I  wish  the  paper  to  adopt  an  unfriendly 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

tone.  This  may  or  may  not  be  patriotism  but  it  is  the 
course  which  I  wish  the  Herald  to  follow." 

Mr.  Bennett's  knowledge  of  foreign  affairs  was  very 
great,  owing  not  only  to  his  continued  residence  in 
Europe  but  also  to  the  precept  and  example  of  his  father 
who  was  one  of  the  first  American  journalists  to  devote 
much  attention  to  what  went  on  in  London  and  Paris. 
The  younger  Bennett  had  long  detested  the  German 
Emperor  and  believed  that  he  had  sinister  designs,  not 
only  on  his  immediate  neighbors,  but  also  on  this  country, 
so  that  the  breaking  out  of  the  Great  War  did  not  take 
him  by  surprise.  By  this  time,  unfortunately,  parsimony 
had  taken  possession  of  his  soul  and  he  proceeded  to 
economize  in  cable  tolls  instead  of  increasing  the  service. 
He  remained  in  Paris  throughout  the  war  and  continued 
to  print  the  Paris  Herald  regularly,  although  all  the 
other  papers  in  the  English  tongue  had  stopped.  One 
of  his  editors  was  instructed  to  stick  pins  in  a  map  to 
indicate  the  position  of  the  invading  army,  and  this 
duty  he  performed  daily  until  the  Germans  were  within 
fourteen  miles  of  Paris  when,  with  trembling  fingers, 
he  stuck  the  pins  in  for  the  last  time  and  fled  to  England, 
taking  most  of  his  staff  with  him.  But  it  never  occurred 
to  his  gallant  employer  to  quit  his  post.  His  carriages 
and  automobiles  had  been  commandeered,  but  he  walked 
to  his  office  every  day,  and,  with  what  assistance  he  could 
obtain,  continued  to  print  his  paper  until  the  tide  was 
turned  at  the  Marne.  He  was  at  this  time,  I  believe,  in 
his  seventy-third  year,  and  it  was  then  that  he  married. 

The  frugal  policies  to  which  I  have  alluded  did  not 
go  unnoticed  in  the  New  York  office.  Shortly  after  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  227 

beginning  of  the  war,  one  of  our  editors  returned  from 
a  prolonged  stay  in  Paris  and,  to  my  inquiry:  "How 
did  you  leave  the  Commodore?"  made  solemn  answer: 
"He's  dead."  And  then  added:  "The  old  drunken,  en 
terprising,  money-spending  Jim  Bennett  is  dead.  In 
his  place  has  come  a  sober  Scotch  miser." 

But  I  like  to  remember  Mr.  Bennett  as  I  first  knew 
him,  distinguished  in  person,  courteous  in  manner  and 
keenly  alive  to  the  interests  of  his  paper.  I  was  often 
asked  sneeringly  if  he  paid  any  attention  to  the  Herald 
and  to  this  I  have  made  answer  that  once  he  cabled  me 
from  Ceylon  ordering  an  editorial  on  a  local  matter,  and 
that  on  another  occasion,  just  as  I  had  begun  to  write 
something  about  a  wealthy  New  Yorker,  then  promi 
nently  before  the  public,  a  cable  message  was  placed 
on  my  desk,  suggesting  that  very  topic.  He  never 
allowed  any  editorial  comment  on  a  case  while  it  was 
before  the  courts  nor  the  coloring  of  news  by  editorial 
opinion. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  speaking  of  Mr.  Dana  as  the  leading  journalist  of 
his  time,  we  should  remember  that  he  had  enjoyed  a 
long  training  under  Horace  Greeley,  who  brought  his 
career  to  a  close  when  he  became  a  candidate  for  the 
Presidency.  Greeley  had  a  tremendous  personal  follow 
ing  because  he  had  strong  convictions  and  expressed 
himself  with  a  vigor  that  frequently  became  vitupera 
tion.  He  was  a  man  of  advanced  ideas,  and,  like  others 
of  his  kind,  the  subject  of  much  ridicule.  And  yet  he 
was  a  strong  advocate  of  teetotalism  and  Woman 
Suffrage,  and  long  before  the  war  he  outlined  a  scheme 
for  filling  in  the  Jersey  marshes  with  the  ashes  and 
refuse  from  New  York  so  that  a  manufacturing  city 
might  be  built  on  what  is  now  a  wide  stretch  of  waste 
land.  The  scheme  is  perfectly  feasible  and  one  that 
would  do  much  to  rid  New  Jersey  of  the  mosquito  pest 
with  which  its  fame  is  closely  associated. 

There  has  been  one  man  in  New  York  in  my  time 
who  had  the  makings  of  a  very  great  journalist  and  I 
have  often  regretted  that  he  did  not  become  the  founder 
or  owner  of  a  daily  newspaper.  Abram  S.  Hewitt  was 
a  man  of  strong  convictions  and  sterling  integrity,  the 
possessor  of  a  splendid  brain  which  he  turned  to  useful 
account,  not  only  for  his  own  benefit,  but  for  that  of 

228 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  229 

the  public  as  well.  His  labors  in  behalf  of  Cooper  Union 
and  his  generous  donations  to  that  most  useful  of  all  our 
public  institutions  left  the  city  immeasurably  indebted  to 
him.  He  was  intensely  patriotic,  had  a  thorough  knowl 
edge  of  national  affairs  and  politics  and  understood  the 
city  of  New  York  and  its  people  as  few  men  have  under 
stood  them.  That  the  bugaboo  of  unpopularity  had  no 
terrors  for  him  was  proved  more  than  once,  never  more 
so  than  when  he  sat  by  the  side  of  Richard  Croker  when 
that  man,  then  a  ward  heeler  and  rough  and  tumble 
fighter,  was  arraigned  for  murder.  It  was  no  small 
thing  for  a  man  of  Mr.  Hewitt's  social  and  commercial 
standing  to  do  and  years  afterward  the  real  perpetrator 
of  the  crime  confessed  his  guilt. 

His  training  as  a  lawyer,  his  scholarship  and  fine 
literary  taste  would  have  proved  invaluable  to  him  in 
the  vocation  that  I  have  assigned  to  him  and  he  was, 
moreover,  just  enough  of  a  "crank" — a  term  often 
fittingly  applied  to  one  strong  enough  to  turn  the  dull 
current  of  public  opinion  from  its  deeply  rutted  course, 
and  wise  enough  to  direct  it  into  more  useful  channels — 
just  enough  of  a  "crank"  to  infuse  his  columns  with 
something  of  the  lively  and  unexpected  interest  that 
makes  for  good  reading. 

Dramatic  journalism,  which  seems  to  be  extinct  now, 
was  represented  by  two  weeklies  of  importance  at  this 
time,  the  Dramatic  News,  edited  by  Charles  A.  Byrne, 
and  the  Mirror,  controlled  by  Harrison  Grey  Fiske,  now 
a  well-known  theatrical  manager.  The  last-named  was 
the  more  decent  and  dignified  organ  of  the  two,  while 
the  News  was  blackguardly  to  the  point  of  libel.  Its 


230  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

editor  and  writers  excelled  in  the  arts  of  vituperation 
and  there  was  one  member  of  its  staff  whose  talents 
should  have  been  employed  for  a  much  better  purpose. 
This  was  Archie  Gordon,  a  Scotchman  of  genuine  wit 
and  a  satirist  of  great  power.  He  was  a  humorist,  too, 
and  personally  good-natured,  like  all  true  satirists  and 
a  bohemian  who  might  have  flourished  in  the  days  of 
Dick  Steele. 

When  Chicago  secured  the  World's  Fair,  Mr.  Dana, 
who  had  set  forth  the  claims  of  New  York  with  his 
customary  skill  and  vigor,  despatched  Gordon  to  the 
Windy  City  with  instructions  to  write  a  page  description 
of  it  in  his  most  venomous  style  and  the  account  thus 
written  is  still  considered  as  one  of  the  great  classics  of 
newspaperdom,  equalling  Amos  J.  Cummings'  page  story 
of  the  career  of  George  Leonidas  Leslie,  the  criminal 
whose  body  was  found  in  the  Westchester  woods,  which 
was  printed  in  the  Sun  in  the  early  spring  of  1879. 

I  recall  a  single  paragraph  from  Gordon's  pen  which 
may  serve  as  a  sample  of  his  vituperative  skill,  em 
ployed,  in  this  case,  to  remind  a  delinquent  of  his  in 
debtedness  to  the  Dramatic  Nezvs: 

"Some  time  ago  a  man  who  had  previously  led  a 
blameless  life  announced  his  intention  of  harassing  the 
Island  of  Jamaica  with  a  company  to  include  Barton 
Hill.  Mark  the  quick  vengeance  of  heaven!  No  sooner 
had  he  made  known  this  fell  purpose  than  a  woman  he 
had  never  seen  in  his  life  had  him  arrested  for  breach 
of  promise  and  he  is  now  languishing  in  jail  while  the 
inhabitants  of  Jamaica  are  giving  devout  thanks  to  the 
Lord  for  their  timely  deliverance." 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  231 

I  have  always  been  strong  for  Scotch  humor,  despite 
the  ancient  tradition  to  the  contrary,  and  Archie  Gordon 
possessed  an  abundance  of  it  as  well  as  the  capacity  for 
enjoying  his  own  jokes,  which,  as  Bret  Harte  has  re 
marked,  is  a  test  of  the  true  humorist.  The  following 
story  he  related  to  me  the  last  time  I  saw  him  and  on  the 
same  occasion  with  equal  cheerfulness  he  told  me  that 
he  had  but  a  few  weeks  more  to  live,  a  prophecy  that 
came  true. 

At  this  time  there  resided  on  the  Bowery  one  Pro 
fessor  Corbett,  the  proprietor  of  the  Van  Dyke  House, 
a  Belgian  of  distinguished  appearance  who  always 
dressed  well  and  had  his  ample  gray  beard  trimmed  by 
Poujol,  the  "learned  French  barber,"  whom  the  Sun 
made  locally  famous.  He  also  filled  an  honored  niche 
in  Cornetist  Levy's  gallery  of  fathers-in-law.  Corbett 
was  likewise  a  playwright  and  had  been  one  of  the 
first  manipulators  of  the  chicken  incubator  in  this  coun 
try.  His  neatly  engraved  visiting  card  bore  the  line, 
"Professor  of  Gallinoculture."  This  card  he  handed  to 
Gordon  one  night  when  the  latter,  always  of  a  social 
turn,  scraped  acquaintance  with  him  in  a  public  resort. 
Quick  to  recognize  the  meaning  of  the  term  and  de 
lighting  to  roll  it  under  his  tongue,  Corbett's  new  friend 
exclaimed  at  once :  "Ah,  that  is  a  science  that  has  always 
interested  me!"  Then  remembering,  as  he  told  me,  that 
his  brother-in-law,  a  tall,  solemn,  slab-sided  Scotchman, 
had  a  dozen  mangy-looking  hens  running  about  his  yard, 
he  added:  "Of  course  you  know  my  brother-in-law, 
Professor  Robertson,  the  well-known  expert  in  Gal 
linoculture  ?" 


232  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Corbett  had  never  heard  of  him  and  Archie  continued: 
"Why  he  is  a  graduate  of  the  College  of  Gallinoculture  in 
Edinburgh,  and  when  he  attended  the  Congress  of  Gal- 
linoculturists  in  Glasgow,  three  years  ago,  the  Mayor 
of  the  city  and  the  Common  Council  came  to  the  station 
in  their  robes  of  office  to  meet  him  and  he  was  chosen 
by  all  the  other  Gallinoculturists  to  preside  at  their  Con- 
gress." 

"It  is  strange  that  I  have  never  heard  of  him/'  said 
the  other,  "but  I  should  like  to  meet  him;  give  him  my 
card  when  you  see  him  next  and  perhaps  we  can  arrange 
a  meeting." 

"I'm  sure  he  would  be  delighted,"  said  Gordon.  "He 
simply  lives  for  Gallinoculture  and  his  home  in  Mont- 
clair  is  the  favorite  place  of  rendezvous  for  all  the  lead 
ing  Gallinoculturists  in  New  Jersey." 

Not  until  a  month  later  did  Archie  enter  the  same 
resort,  and  as  he  passed  the  threshold  Corbett,  who  had 
apparently  been  waiting  for  him  all  that  time,  came  for 
ward  and  pounced  upon  him  saying  eagerly:  "Eh  bienf 
That  brother-in-law  of  yours!  I  have  written  to  him 
several  times  but  received  no  answer.  Is  he  afraid  to 
hold  a  conference  with  me?" 

Gordon  had  forgotten  all  about  their  previous  con 
versation  and  it  took  him  half  a  minute  to  recall  it ;  then 
he  responded :  "Of  course  I  gave  him  your  card  but  he 
seemed  rather  annoyed  at  the  thought  that  there  was  a 
Gallinoculturist  in  New  York  of  the  Belgian  school  and  I 
never  meet  him  that  he  does  not  speak  in  the  most  dis 
paraging  manner  of  the  Belgian  Gallinoculturists  and  the 
sort  of  Gallinoculture  that  they  practice.  He's  holding 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  233 

a  conference  of  New  Jersey  Gallinoculturists  at  his  home 
in  Montclair,  this  very  evening,  and  I've  no  doubt  that 
they  are  all  engaged  in  abusing  you  and  agreeing  that 
your  method  of  bringing  chickens  into  the  world  is  en 
tirely  obsolete  and  a  disgrace  to  the  noble  profession  of 
Gallinoculture." 

A  week  later  Archie  met  his  brother-in-law  and  by 
mere  chance  recalled  his  meetings  with  Corbett  and  de 
termined  to  sound  him.  He  spoke  of  eggs,  then  of 
chickens  and  finally  brought  in  the  term  Gallinoculture, 
at  which  a  gleam  of  intelligence  came  into  the  other's 
eyes  and  he  said,  "What's  that  long  word  ?" 

"Gallinoculture,"  rejoined  Gordon.  "Why  do  you 
ask?" 

"There's  a  crazy  sort  of  fellow  been  writing  me  letters 
lately  all  about  that  and  I  didn't  know  what  in  the  Devil 
he  meant.  A  week  ago  he  had  the  cheek  to  call  upon 
me  and  he  seemed  very  angry  at  something." 

"Yes?"  said  Archie  interrogatively,  "what  did  you 
say  to  him  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  anything.  I  just  pushed  him  down 
stairs,"  said  the  brother-in-law. 

The  dramatic  profession  lived  in  daily  terror  of  the 
attacks  made  on  them  by  Byrne  and  Gordon  in  the 
Dramatic  News,  which  were  often  grossly  personal  and 
especially  venomous  in  the  case  of  a  mummer  who  had 
failed  to  pay  for  his  advertisement.  The  paper  appeared 
on  the  stands  at  eleven  o'clock  every  Thursday  morning 
and  those  distributing  agencies  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Union  Square  were  instantly  surrounded  by  players  eager 
to  see  who  "gets  it  this  time."  In  addition  to  these  two 


234  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

journals  there  was  the  Clipper,  still  in  existence  and  de 
voted  largely  to  circus  and  variety. 

During  the  Seventies  and  Eighties  Brentano's  on 
Union  Square  enjoyed  a  vogue  as  a  literary  place  of 
rendezvous  not  unlike  that  of  "The  Old  Corner  Book 
store,"  in  Boston,  during  its  lifetime.  It  was  on  the 
direct  route  between  the  downtown  business  section  and 
the  residential  quarter;  many  of  the  principal  publishing 
houses  were  situated  near  by  and  literary  men  and  artists 
were  scattered  about  the  neighborhood  as  far  south  as 
Washington  Square.  One  could  find  here  at  any  time 
not  only  men  and  women  of  artistic  callings  but  also 
lovers  of  books  and  collectors  thereof. 

The  original  Brentano  had  emigrated  from  Italy  at  a 
very  early  age  and  begun  life  here  as  a  newsboy.  Be 
cause  of  his  physical  deformity,  the  landlord  bad  per 
mitted  him  to  sell  papers  in  front  of  his  New  York 
Hotel  and  here  he  built  up  a  good  trade,  for  he  was 
always  alert,  cheerful  and  anxious  to  please  his  cus 
tomers.  When  the  time  came  for  the  much-heralded 
Heenan-Sayres  prize-fight  in  England,  young  Brentano 
exhibited  a  foresight  far  beyond  that  of  any  of  his  com 
petitors  by  ordering  in  advance  from  London  a  large 
number  of  newspapers  containing  full  accounts  of  the 
combat.  There  was  no  cable  in  those  days  and  when 
the  steamer  containing  news  of  the  result  arrived,  Bren 
tano  was  at  the  dock  for  his  bundles  of  papers  and  was 
selling  them  for  a  dollar  apiece  before  the  day  closed. 
In  this  manner  he  laid  the  foundation  of  the  present  ex 
tensive  business  that  bears  his  name. 


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IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  235 

During  the  Eighties,  by  which  time  he  was  beginning 
to  feel  his  age,  he  retired  and  handed  over  his  store  to 
his  three  nephews,  August,  Simon  and  Arthur,  the  last- 
named  of  whom  still  survives  and  is  manager  of  the 
house.  The  elder  Brentano  announced  his  intention  of 
making  a  tour  of  the  world  and  for  a  time  busied  him 
self  with  farewells  to  the  many  well-known  citizens 
whorri  he  numbered  among  his  friends.  He  departed 
with  everyone's  good  wishes  for  an  extended  tour  but 
got  no  further  than  Montreal,  for  the  spell  of  New  York 
was  too  strong  for  him  to  resist  and  he  returned  to 
occupy  the  cashier's  desk  in  the  establishment  that  he 
had  founded  and  there  he  remained  until  the  day  of 
his  death. 

A1  contemporary  of  mine  on  the  green  turf  of  Broad 
way  during  the  Eighties  was  an  individual  who,  through 
his  lifelong  practice  of  never  doing  anything  for  any  one 
but  himself,  came  to  be  widely  known  as  "Glorious, 
Good-hearted  Gus."  His  redeeming  trait  was  a  sense 
of  humor  which  found  frequent  expression  in  practi 
cal  jokes  at  the  expense  of  persons  unfamiliar  with 
urban  ways  whom  he  always  had  in  tow.  I  recall  two 
instances  in  which  his  jocose  efforts  seem  to  have  re 
coiled  on  himself. 

While  the  Eden  Musee  was  in  process  of  construc 
tion,  Gus  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the  foreign 
directors  of  that  enterprise  and  easily  persuaded  him 
that  he  was  himself  a  person  of  such  importance  as  'to 
warrant  the  placing  of  his  effigy  in  wax  in  that  hall  of 
wonders.  Not  until  the  figure  was  finished  was  the  true 


236  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

status  of  Gus  made  known  to  the  exhibitors  and  then, 
rather  than  have  their  work  wasted,  they  set  it  up  in 
the  lobby  as  a  pickpocket. 

Gus  had  a  simple-minded  German  friend  who,  soon 
after  his  arrival  here,  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  attend 
a  large  ball  given  by  the  Vanderbilts.  "I'll  fix  you  all 
right,"  said  his  cicerone,  and  the  credulous  one  started 
for  the  scene  of  revelry  bearing  a  note  of  introduction 
which  he  was  assured  would  gain  him  immediate  en 
trance,  and  leaving  behind  him  a  promise  to  report  his 
experiences  later  in  the  evening.  He  returned  to  find 
Gus  and  one  or  two  of  his  familiars  awaiting  his  arrival 
at  the  saloon  agreed  upon  as  a  rendezvous. 

"Talk  about  these  American  aristocrats  being  proud 
and  snobbish,  they're  nothing  of  the  kind!"  cried  the 
German  delightedly.  "I  never  was  better  treated  in  my 
life.  When  I  rang  the  bell  and  showed  my  card  I  was 
told  to  go  to  another  door,  right  underneath.  There  I 
met  a  gentleman  in  a  dress  suit,  probably  Mr.  Vanderbilt 
himself,  and  he  set  me  down  to  a  grand  supper  and 
what's  more  when  I  came  away  he  gave  me  a  bottle  of 
champagne — here  it  is — this  pate  and  all  these  grapes." 
These  delicacies  he  produced  from  the  ample  pocket  of 
his  overcoat  and  wound  up  his  account  by  inviting  every 
body  to  have  a  drink,  thus  defying  the  usual  code  of 
German  etiquette. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ALTHOUGH  the  Nineties  is  not  yet  sufficiently  remote 
-**•  to  enjoy  the  importance  of  a  distinct  historical 
period  now  ascribed  to  the  Eighties,  it  nevertheless  left 
its  mark  upon  the  annals  of  the  town.  It  was  then  that 
Mr.  Hearst  appeared  in  Park  Row  and  by  his  contest 
with  Mr.  Pulitzer  over  the  privilege  of  printing  the 
"Yellow  Kid"  pictures  fastened  upon  their  school  of 
journalism  the  term  "yellow."  It  was  then,  too,  that 
E.  W.  Bok  entered  the  literary  field  and  Eleanor  Duse 
made  a  profound  impression  on  the  playgoing  public. 
Comic  opera  began  to  degenerate  into  musical  comedy 
and  the  science  of  publicity  extended  its  activities  into 
many  new  fields. 

It  is  at  the  very  dawn  of  this  tenth  decade  that  the 
historian  who  has  the  good  sense  to  concern  himself 
with  events  of  apparent  insignificance  but  real  impor 
tance  will  note  the  appearance  on  the  horizon  of  Mr. 
Ward  McAllister,  who  had  previously  stirred  up  an 
amazing  local  tempest  by  a  chance  remark  about  the  four 
hundred  persons  composing  New  York  society.  An 
eager  press  seized  upon  the  idea  of  a  society  properly 
catalogued,  and  printed  lists  of  the  "Four  Hundred,"  to 
be  later  amplified  for  the  advancement  of  the  socially 
ambitious.  Fashion  of  earlier  days  shunned  rather  than 
courted  newspaper  notoriety,  and  in  the  printed  accounts 

£37 


238  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

of  the  ball  given  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  1861  the 
dresses  were  fully  described  but  their  wearers  were  in 
dicated  only  by  initials.  The  Sun  for  many  years  printed 
in  its  Sunday  edition  a  single  column  in  which  were 
chronicled,  in  a  dignified  manner,  the  activities  of  a  very 
small  group  of  fashionable  families.  But  under  the  new 
dispensation,  the  feminine  element  of  the  public  began 
to  take  a  feverish  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  new 
peerage,  an  interest  that  developed  into  something  like 
hysteria  when  the  art  of  portraiture  through  the  cheap 
medium  of  photo-engraving  lent  its  aid  to  the  good 
work.  Every  boarding-house  resounded  with  discus 
sions  as  to  who  was  and  who  was  not  the  absolute  leader 
of  society  and  a  fashionable  wedding  was  certain  to 
crowd  the  sidewalks  opposite  the  church  with  throngs 
of  eager  lookers-on.  I  dare  say  that  the  majority  of 
these  spectators  were  better  informed  in  regard  to  the 
movements  of  society  and  its  migrations  between  New 
York  and  Newport  than  were  those  reared  within  the 
golden  gates. 

I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  fashionable  society 
and  I  am  always  suspicious  of  those  who  blatantly  de 
nounce  it.  He  who  has  known  what  it  is  to  sit  before 
a  bank  of  flowers  with  an  attractive  woman  on  his  left, 
and  sometimes  another  of  like  charm  on  his  right,  with 
terrapin  on  his  plate  and  a  champagne  glass,  as  often  re 
filled  as  emptied,  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand,  should 
be  careful  not  to  cut  himself  off  from  the  delights  to 
come  by  foolish  utterances. 

But  I  do  object  to  the  persistent  misrepresentation  of 
society  by  press-agents — there  is  no  telephone  bell  in  a 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  239 

newspaper  office  that  rings  as  frequently  as  does  that  on 
the  society  editor's  desk — and  on  the  stage.  It  is  because 
of  all  this  that  no  foreigner  living,  unless  it  be  Lord 
Bryce,  understands  the  social  structure  of  our  nation. 

In  the  excellent  work  of  misrepresenting  the  fashion 
able  society  of  our  metropolis,  as  well  as  its  other  strata, 
the  rubberneck  coach,  dating  from  1905,  has  ably  sec 
onded  that  of  the  forces  I  have  named,  and  supplanted 
the  out-of-town  correspondent  of  an  earlier  period  as  a 
medium  for  the  dissemination  of  false  information.  The 
megaphone  man  is  to  a  certain  extent  responsible  for  the 
distorted  views  of  more  than  one  phase  of  life  indelibly 
engraved  on  the  rubberneck  mind.  I  have  long  wished 
to  take  a  trip  on  one  of  those  vehicles  of  mendacious 
propaganda,  partly  for  my  own  amusement  and  partly  in 
order  to  hear  what  the  megaphone  man  had  to  say. 
Nothing  but  the  fear  of  recognition  has  dissuaded  me. 
And  while  these  tours  of  exploration  through  the  fash 
ionable  quarters  of  the  city  have  had  no  effect  on  the 
inhabitants,  thereof,  they  have  materially  influenced  cer 
tain  quarters  much  further  downtown.  Rubbernecks 
share  with  sociological  students  a  frenzied  delight  in 
scenes  of  vice  and  horror,  and  as  New  York  contains 
but  few  of  such  nowadays,  the  establishment  of  fake 
opium  joints,  fake  dens  of  vice  and  fake  bad  men  and 
quaint  characters  has  become  a  distinct  industry  of  the 
slums.  As  an  illustration  of  the  manner  in  which  those 
journeying  along  Fifth  Avenue  are  regaled  with  mislead 
ing  statements,  I  will  relate  an  anecdote  concerning  three 
friends  of  mine  who  were  seated  one  day  in  a  window 
of  the  Knickerbocker  Club  when  the  coach  went  by. 


240  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

All  three  were  in  the  state  known  as  "stony  broke"; 
all  were  posted  on  the  club  bulletin  as  delinquents  and 
therefore  entitled  to  no  further  credit  at  the  bar.  Nor 
did  the  combined  resources  of  all  three  equal  the  cost 
of  a  round  of  drinks.  It  will  probably  surprise  many 
persons  to  learn  that  three  of  those  demigods  of  fiction, 
"clubmen/'  can  be  reduced  to  such  straits. 

Seated  in  melancholy  silence  the  three  noted  the  ap 
proach  of  the  rubberneck  coach  and  as  it  passed  they  saw 
the  megaphone  man  direct  the  gaze  of  his  open-mouthed 
passengers  to  the  window  in  which  they  sat  and  heard  his 
strident  cry  of  "On  your  right  the  Knickerbocker  Club ! 
Every  member  a  millionaire !" 

On  the  stage  social  delusion  runs  riot.  In  every  prop 
erty-room  there  may  be  found  on  the  same  shelf  with 
the  cups  from  which  toasts  are  drunk  in  phantom  wine, 
the  gilt  lorgnettes  used  by  the  actress  cast  for  the  "society 
leader"  in  subtle  delineation  of  the  finer  shadings  of  the 
role.  No  other  member  of  the  company  is  permitted 
to  handle  this  precious  article.  The  actor  who  tries  to 
procure  it  in  order  to  delineate  the  finer  shadings  of  the 
character  of  a  blacksmith  or  faithful  and  attached 
servitor  would  get  his  two  weeks'  notice  on  the  spot. 
Yet  its  employment  in  his  hands  would  not  be  more 
absurd  than  it  is  in  those  to  which  it  is  consecrated  by 
immemorial  custom.  Through  this  ear-mark  of  distinc 
tion,  the  "society  leader"  gazes  at  the  wedding  guests 
with  an  air  of  insufferable  insolence  that  would  make  her 
assumption  of  "leadership"  a  joke  in  any  drawing-room 
in  the  town. 

In  viewing  such  a  preposterous  performance  I  find  it 


^     Qtf 


If 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  241 

pleasant  to  recall  the  gracious  sweetness  with  which  Mrs. 
Gilbert  used  to  enhance  the  charm  and  beauty  of  the 
Daly  productions  when  cast  for  the  part  of  a  well-bred 
woman  of  society. 

Socially  inconspicuous  as  I  am — I  have  never  been  one 
of  fashion's  spoiled  darlings — I  am  certain  that  the  most 
withering  looks  would  pierce  me  through  that  property- 
room  medium  of  scorn,  yet  never  but  once  in  my  life 
have  I  found  myself  in  a  company  that  treated  me  with 
undisguised  contumely.  That  was  at  the  ball  given  dur 
ing  my  stay  at  Coney  Island  by  the  employees  of  a  rail 
road  running  between  that  resort  and  New  York,  an 
annual  revel  that  never  failed  to  bring  out  the  conserva 
tive  and  exclusive  elements  composing  what  I  called, 
but  they  did  not,  the  Island's  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 
To  this  festival  of  stately  decorum  came  only  the  elect. 
Prominent  conductors  employed  on  other  lines  of  sub 
urban  traffic,  two  or  three  bar-tenders  who  were  known 
to  be  above  their  business  and  a  local  plumber  noted  for 
his  savoir  faire  vied  with  one  another  in  their  attentions 
to  the  refined  daughters  of  the  leading  grocer,  the  re 
served  niece  of  the  eminent  scientist  who  practiced 
phrenology  in  a  tent  and  the  handsomely  attired  progeny 
of  the  collector  for  the  brewery.  In  all  that  gay  throng 
I  was  perhaps  the  only  person  who  had  ever  crossed  the 
threshold  of  a  first-class  house,  except  to  carry  in  a 
trunk  or  piano,  and  yet  I  was  made  to  feel  that  I  was  an 
outsider  for  I  was  nothing  but  a  reporter,  and  reporters 
are  seldom  popular  except  when  useful.  Nor  did  those 
ladies  require  lorgnettes  with  which  to  express  their 
scorn. 


242  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

One  of  the  evil  results  of  the  prominence  attained  by 
a  great  many  unworthy  persons  is  the  development  of 
the  male  society-pusher,  by  which  I  mean  a  man  who 
tries  all  sorts  of  tricks  and  devices  to  thrust  himself 
into  a  circle  which  he  acknowledges  to  be  above  his  own 
and  into  which  it  has  not  pleased  God  to  call  him.  I 
have  noted  the  habits  of  these  pushers  for  many  years 
and  have  reached  the  conclusion  that  each  is  a  "wrong 
Jun"  in  other  and  more  serious  respects.  He  is  very 
different  from  the  female  of  his  species,  for  a  yearning 
after  social  position  is  pardonable  in  a  woman,  to  whom 
it  means  much  more  than  to  a  man,  and  who  has  not  in 
frequently  the  future  of  her  children  in  mind  while  she 
pursues  her  innocent  tactics.  Each  sex  has  its  own 
weakness  and  must  be  judged  accordingly,  and  what  is 
pardonable  in  one  is  inexcusable  in  the  other.  For  ex 
ample,  a  man  may  drink  too  much  at  an  evening  party 
and  subsequently  square  himself  by  a  propitiatory  offer 
ing  of  flowers  to  his  hostess  or  the  purchase  of  tickets 
for  a  distressing  concert  by  amateurs.  In  certain  of 
the  western  cities  a  more  liberal  and  discerning  code  dis 
tinguishes  between  those  whose  offense  might  be  regarded 
as  a  tribute  to  the  generous  hospitality  of  the  house  and 
those  guilty  of  the  more  heinous  crime  of  "bringing  their 
load  with  them."  But  in  a  woman,  inebriety,  under  any 
conditions,  is  regarded  as  a  serious  offence  and  in  like 
manner  do  I  regard  society  pushing  on  the  part  of  the 
male. 

Even  at  this  late  day  I  would  gladly  push  my  way  into 
company  accredited  by  common  repute  with  a  social 
standing  superior  to  my  own  were  it  not  for  my  dread 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  243 

of  encountering  the  sort  of  snub  that  only  woman's  lips 
can  administer,  or  the  glance  of  withering  contempt  with 
which  I  have  seen  an  unbidden  guest  regarded.  I  have, 
however,  attended — never,  I  am  proud  to  say,  save  by 
invitation — festivities  in  many  social  strata  and  have  not 
yet  discovered  which  represented  the  upper  and  which 
the  lower  crust  of  society. 

Looking  back  over  many  years  my  memory  lights 
gladly  on  several  high  spots  of  social  diversion.  I  recall 
those  parties  of  early  childhood  at  which  I  gorged  myself 
unrebuked  on  ice  cream  and  strawberries,  and  later  the 
boarding  school  feasts  given  surreptitiously  after  we 
were  all  supposed  to  be  asleep,  at  a  table  noiselessly  spread 
by  a  barefoot  committee  and  with  windows  carefully 
draped  with  blankets  to  prevent  a  tell-tale  light.  Com 
ing  down  to  more  recent  years  I  remember  fishing  trips 
to  Nova  Scotia,  as  the  guest  of  my  friend,  E.  K.  Spinney 
of  Yarmouth,  and  Hector  Sutherland  of  New  Glasgow. 
Those  excursions  yielded  me  fewer  fish  and  more  genuine 
enjoyment  than  came  to  any  other  members  of  the  party, 
for  the  lakes,  the  woods,  the  salt  air  sifted  through  miles 
of  resinous  forests  were  an  old  story  to  them  and  to  me 
delightfully  fresh  and  novel. 

It  was  in  the  rooms  of  the  Century  Club  in  Fifteenth 
Street  which  I  often  visited  with  my  father,  that  I  met 
some  of  the  finest  company  that  I  have  ever  known,  for 
the  club  then  held  a  high  position  as  the  gathering  place 
of  men  of  intellectual,  literary  and  artistic  distinction. 
It  was  there  that  I  heard  Clarence  King  talk  as  I  have 
never  heard  any  one  else  talk  before  or  since.  He  could 
take  the  most  commonplace  topic  and  blow  it  into  a  sue- 


244  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

cession  of  many-colored  bubbles  as  a  child  blows  soap 
suds  or  a  glass-blower  fashions  his  material.  Another 
man  of  wit  in  the  Century  group  and  whom  I  afterward 
knew  quite  well,  was  F.  F.  Marbury,  who  excelled  in  the 
art  of  saying  the  most  witty  and  amusing  things  with 
a  perfectly  grave  face.  On  one  occasion  a  Cockney 
Englishman  had  contrived  to  make  himself  one  of  a 
little  group  of  Centurions  whom  he  was  "deah  boyingjf 
in  a  rather  familiar  strain  and  without  due  regard  for 
his  aspirates.  "There  was  a  big  hentail  on  the  land,'' 
he  explained  in  the  course  of  a  rather  tedious  narrative, 
and  then  interjected,  "but  you  don't  know  anything 
about  the  hentail  in  this  country,  I  believe?" 

"No,"  rejoined  Marbury  promptly,  "we  don't  know 
anything  about  the  hentail  but  we  know  all  about  the 
cocktail." 

Another  extremely  interesting  talker  whom  I  recall 
was  Mr.  Augustine  Smith,  who  knew  the  history  of  New 
York  backwards,  to  use  a  familiar  phrase,  and  was  rich 
in  anecdotal  lore  concerning  every  one  of  the  town's 
best  known  families. 

The  most  beautiful  evening  party  I  ever  attended  was 
given  in  one  of  the  finest  of  the  older  New  York  houses 
and  was -arranged  to  illustrate  various  schools  of  song. 
Groups  of  men  and  women,  appropriately  costumed, 
came  up  the  broad  marble  stair  case,  singing  as  they  came 
to  the  accompaniment  of  an  orchestra  stationed  on  the 
upper  landing,  whence  they  marched,  still  singing, 
through  the  reception  and  drawing-rooms  where  the 
guests  were  assembled.  One  of  these  groups  consisted 
of  men  in  pink  coats  who  sang  old  English  hunting 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  245 

songs,  and  another  composed  of  young  men  and  women, 
dressed  in  Neapolitan  costume,  sang  Italian  folk  songs. 
All  these  singers  had  been  carefully  trained  and  appro 
priately  costumed  and  the  whole  thing  was  marvelously 
beautiful  and  devoid  of  the  slovenliness  that  marks  so 
many  amateur  efforts. 

I  have  always  found  great  delight  in  theatrical  parties 
and  two  or  three  of  these  I  recall  with  pleasure.  I  was 
the  only  literary  man  invited  to  the  silver  wedding  of 
Tony  Pastor  in  Elmhurst,  Long  Island,  where  many 
popular  entertainers  then  had  their  homes.  It  was  a 
gathering  that  would  have  delighted  the  soul  of  any 
veteran  playgoer  who  knew  and  loved  the  variety  stage. 
Peter  F.  Dailey  was  there  and  I  heard  Maggie  Cline 
singing,  "Throw  him  down,  McCluskey,"  as  I  crossed 
the  threshold.  Evans  of  "Evans  and  Hoey"  was  there, 
as  was  Edgar  Smith,  the  librettist,  and  wife,  and  the 
Russell  Brothers  (the  neat  Irish  chamber-maids  of  variety 
renown),  Hallen  and  Hart,  John  T.  Kelly,  considered, 
apart  from  what  he  can  do  on  the  stage,  the  best  "dress 
ing-room  actor"  in  the  profession,  and  scores  of  others. 
A  continuous  performance  was  given  by  some  of  the  best 
variety  talent  in  the  country  from  the  beginning  of  the 
revel  until  the  last  of  the  guests  started  homeward  on  the 
trolley  car. 

Another  professional  evening  that  I  remember  was  a 
New  Year's  Eve  party  given  by  Mrs.  McKee  Rankin  in 
her  apartment  on  Broadway,  and  it  proved  so  successful, 
that  I  commend  it  to  the  attention  of  those  hostesses 
who  wish  to  entertain  their  friends  in  a  novel  fashion 
and  whose  visiting  lists  contain  men  and  women  of  suffi- 


246  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

cient  wit  and  sparkle  to  carry  the  affair  through  in  the 
proper  spirit.  Mrs.  Rankin  had  arranged  that  the  old 
year  should  be  tried  before  judge  and  jury,  prosecuted 
by  one  lawyer  and  defended  by  another,  and  that  the 
different  guests  should  be  summoned  before  this  tribunal 
as  witnesses  to  testify  as  to  what  the  old  year  had  done 
for  them  or  what  it  had  left  undone.  A  stuffed  figure 
that  bore  a  suspicious  resemblance  to  McKee  Rankin, 
with  whom  our  hostess  was  then  at  odds,  typified  the 
dying  year  and  was  propped  up  in  what  was  supposed 
to  be  the  prisoner's  box.  One  after  another  the  guests 
were  called  upon  to  give  their  testimony  and  many  were 
the  amusing  remarks  and  tilts  of  wit  between  the  oppos 
ing  counsel.  I  think  that  Sidney  Drew,  Mrs.  Rankin's 
son-in-law,  was  the  judge  and  Marshall  P.  Wilder  one 
of  the  legal  advocates.  Ethel  Barrymore  was  there — she 
was  then  a  very  young  girl — and  I  remember  that  she 
contributed  her  share  to  the  entertainment  by  singing  and 
playing  most  delightfully.  Among  the  others  present 
were  the  "Holland  boys/'  two  bright-faced  lads  of  about 
fifty-seven;  Mrs.  John  Chamberlain,  of  previous  dramatic 
renown;  and  Mrs.  Rankin's  lovely  daughter  Phyllis,  who 
later  gained  fame  here  and  in  London  in  The  Belle  of 
New  York.  The  final  verdict  of  the  jury  was  "guilty" 
and  the  sentence  of  the  judge  was  that  the  old  year 
should  be  thrown  out.  So  at  the  very  stroke  of  midnight 
the  stuffed  figure  was  hurled  through  the  window  to  the 
court  below — the  captain  of  the  precinct  had  refused  to 
allow  it  to  be  thrown  into  Broadway  for  fear  of  a  riot — 
and  at  the  same  instant  Mrs.  Sidney  Drew  appeared  bear- 


II 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  247 

ing  in  her  arms  her  infant  daughter  to  whose  health,  as 
a  symbol  of  the  new  year,  all  drank. 

I  have  also  spent  many  merry  evenings  in  the  early 
Eighties  in  the  rooms  in  Ninth  Street,  where  Eleanor 
Carey,  a  most  attractive  member  of  the  Union  Square 
Company,  had  her  home.  She  entertained  a  good  many 
members  of  the  English  musical  comedy  companies  then 
playing  in  New  York  and  her  very  small  boy  used  to 
watch  these  entertainers  with  delight  until  sleep  over 
came  him  and  he  was  put  to  bed  in  the  back  parlor  while 
the  revels  ceased  for  a  moment,  to  be  resumed  as  soon  as 
he  was  completely  lost  to  the  world.  Other  evenings 
I  have  spent  in  the  home  of  George  Arliss  and  in  that 
of  Fay  Templeton  and  never  in  either  case  without  much 
enjoyment.  I  recall  also  more  than  one  party  given  by 
David  Belasco,  on  Sunday  evenings,  on  the  stage  of 
his  theatre.  Taken,  all  in  all,  my  associations  with 
players  have  been  extremely  agreeable  and  socially  I 
rank  them  very  high  in  my  wide  acquaintance. 

As  already  related  it  was  Steele  Mackaye  who  set  the 
ball  of  theatrical  finance  rolling  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Eighties,  and  it  was  the  same  hand  that  gave  it  fresh 
impetus  at  the  very  dawn  of  the  succeeding  decade.  No 
sooner  was  it  decided  that  Chicago  should  have  the 
World's  Fair  than  this  past  master  of  high  finance 
started  for  that  city  carrying  up  his  sleeve  a  weapon 
secretly  fashioned  in  his  own  verbal  armory.  On  his 
arrival  he  prepared  a  banquet  to  which  he  invited  many 
wealthy  citizens,  including  those  who  had  never  spent  a 
cent  in  the  public  interest  without  first  ascertaining  what 
there  was  "into  it"  for  themselves.  With  his  imposing 


248  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

presence,  mobile  actor-face,  rolling  eyes  and  sonorous 
voice,  their  host  held  them  helpless  in  the  clutches  of  his 
oratory  as  he  unfolded  his  scheme  for  a  gigantic  place 
of  amusement  which  should  not  only  place  the  Windy 
City  on  the  map  as  the  Athens  of  the  mid-west,  but  also 
yield  fabulous  profits  to  its  projectors. 

As  every  one  on  the  New  Jersey  coast  knows,  there  is 
a  moment  in  the  life  of  a  crab  when  it  behooves  him  to 
hide  himself  in  the  sand  and  there  remain  during  the 
brief  space  of  time  that  lies  between  the  casting  off  of 
his  old  shell  and  the  hardening  of  a  new  one,  a  process 
that  leaves  him  for  a  time  a  "shedder"  and  at  the  mercy 
of  the  crabber's  net.  Not  until  his  eloquence  had  melted 
the  shell  of  distrust  from  his  guests  and  before  their 
skins  had  begun  to  harden  against  his  wiles  did  Mr. 
Mackaye  draw  his  concealed  weapon  from  the  sleeve  of 
his  vocabulary  and  swoop  down  upon  them  with  it  upon 
his  lips.  That  weapon  was  the  word  "Spectatorium," 
and  as  it  came  booming  forth  on  splendid  waves  of  sound 
from  his  powerful  lungs,  like  a  genie  released  from  its 
bottle,  the  defenceless  "shedders,"  to  use  a  sporting  term, 
"took  the  count." 

Exactly  how  much  he  obtained  for  a  project  that  was 
never  completed  and  whose  skeleton  was  ultimately  sold 
as  scrap  iron  for  a  few  thousand  dollars,  is  now  a  bitter 
corroding  memory  in  the  minds  of  those  who  contributed 
and  whose  lips  refuse  to  mention  the  sum.  The  world 
has  always  paid  willing  tribute  to  its  orators  and  there 
are  many  thoughtful  men  who  contend  that  the  gaunt 
and  rusty  bones  of  the  "Spectatorium"  should  have  been 
left  standing  to  the  eternal  glory  of  Steele  Mackaye,  and 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  249 

that  to  the  single  word  to  which  it  owed  its  creation 
should  be  accorded  a  place  in  the  national  lexicon  side 
by  side  with  Daniel  Webster's  superb  metaphor  in  his 
eulogy  of  Alexander  Hamilton.  I  am  opposed  to  this 
plan  and  also  to  the  proposal  to  mark  with  a  brass  plate 
the  exact  spot  on  which  the  silver-tongued  newspaper 
agent,  Mr.  Charles  M.  Palmer,  sold  the  New  York  Daily 
News  to  Frank  A.  Munsey.  No  visible  reminder  of 
these  occurrences  should  be  allowed  to  stay  the  hand  of 
one  about  to  redistribute  his  swollen  fortune.  Better 
the  silence  of  oblivion  pour  encouragcr  les  autrcs. 

In  a  previous  chapter  I  have  spoken  of  players  whose 
success  was  due  largely  to  competent  management  and 
adroit  press-work,  and  it  is  therefore  with  pleasure  that 
I  relate  the  story  of  one  who  succeeded  without  any 
press-work  at  all,  and  gained  instant  and  substantial 
recognition  through  sheer  force  of  genius. 

I  was  then  on  terms  of  amity  with  the  Rosenfeld 
Brothers,  Viennese  managers  who  had  brought  to  this 
country  the  Lilliputian  Company,  the  most  remarkable 
group  of  dwarfs  ever  seen  here.  They  seemed  anxious 
to  present  other  foreign  attractions  in  New  York  and 
one  day  they  told  me  that  they  had  signed  with  the 
greatest  of  European  actresses  for  an  American  tour 
and  asked  if  I  would  undertake  her  press-work. 

I  had  never  heard  of  her  before  and  felt  that  the 
task  of  creating  an  American  reputation  for  her  out  of 
whole  cloth  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible.  Nor 
had  I  any  faith  in  stars,  no  matter  how  gifted,  playing 
in  an  alien  tongue,  so  I  inquired  rather  dubiously  what 
there  was  to  say  about  her  in  advance  of  her  debut. 


250  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

I  never  knew  how  many  Rosenfelds  there  were — 
whenever  I  thought  I  had  them  all  counted  two  more 
would  enter  the  room — but  they  were  sufficiently  numer 
ous  to  form  an  effective  chorus  and  now  they  lifted  their 
voices  in  an  impressive  shout: 

"You  can  say  anything  you  like  about  her  and  it  will 
be  less  than  true !  She  is  the  greatest  artist  in  all  Europe 
and  the  superior  even  of  Bernhardt.  In  Italy  she  is  the 
idol  of  the  people  and  when  she  leaves  by  the  stage  door 
after  the  performance  the  police  have  to  be  called  out 
to  prevent  a  riot.  You  can  get  the  Herald  to  print  notices 
saying  all  this  and  more  too,  and  then  when  they  see  her 
on  the  stage  they  will  thank  you  for  having  given  them 
the  news  before  the  other  papers." 

But  I  was  fearful  that  the  Herald  would  be  likely  to 
reserve  its  judgment  until  after  the  lady's  debut,  so  I 
declined  the  job  and  when  they  suggested  interviews  as 
the  next  best  means  of  awakening  popular  interest  a 
brilliant  idea  entered  my  head  and  I  told  them  that  inter 
views  were  played  out  and  they  might  possibly  arouse 
some  enthusiasm  for  their  star  by  having  her  refuse  to 
receive  any  reporters,  though  in  my  secret  heart  I 
doubted  if  any  actress  would  consent  to  forego  the  time- 
honored  privilege  of  talking  about  herself.  Whether  or 
no  my  counsel  had  any  result  I  never  learned,  but  I  do 
know  that  the  star  positively  refused  to  be  interviewed 
and  that  her  unheard-of  reticence  was  supplemented  by 
paragraphs  stating  that  her  managers  were  unable  to 
hold  converse  with  her  except  through  the  keyhole  of  her 
door. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Eleanora  Duse  came  before 


ELEONORA  DUSE,  WHO  C'ON<M  KRED  NEW  YORK  IN  A 
SINGLE  \U;HT 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

us  without  a  word  of  preliminary  puffing  on  a  stage 
barren  of  costly  accessories — I  think  she  had  paper 
scenery — and  conquered  New  York  in  a  single  night. 
Before  the  fall  of  the  curtain  that  memorable  night  in 
January,  1893,  I  knew  that  all  that  the  Rosenfelds  had 
said  about  her  was  true.  Maturer  judgment  tells  me 
that  no  dramatic  fire  equal  to  hers  has  flashed  across  our 
vision  since  Rachel's  ill-starred  tour.  A  true  child  of 
the  theatre,  with  the  blood  of  player-folk  in  her  veins 
she  had  been  carefully  trained  by  her  parents  and  lived 
only  that  she  might  act.  Her  first  season  here  was  tre 
mendously  successful  but  on  her  return  to  Italy  she  fell 
under  the  influence  of  the  poet  who  was  also  a  writer 
of  plays  that  Americans  did  not  care  to  see,  so  that  when 
she  came  a  second  time  she  attracted  but  slim  audiences 
and  could  earn  only  meagre  royalties  for  her  lover. 
Nevertheless  her  single  performance  of  Magda  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  drew  an  assembly  that  taxed 
the  capacity  of  the  building. 

As  John  Hollingshead  "kept  alight  the  sacred  lamp 
of  burlesque"  in  London,  so  did  George  Edwardes  keep 
alive  the  still  more  sacred  and  consuming  flame  of 
feminine  beauty  in  New  York.  His  London  Gaiety 
Theatre  Burlesque  Company  appeared  for  the  first  time 
at  the  Manhattan  Theatre  at  the  close  of  the  ninth  decade 
in  Monte  Cristo,  Jr.,  followed  a  month  later  by  Miss 
Esmeralda,  the  two  presenting  to  the  New  York  public 
that  delightful  comedian,  Fred  Leslie,  and  such  attractive 
women  as  Nellie  Farren,  Marian  Hood,  Letty  Lind  and 
Sylvia  Grey.  Later  Miss  Cissie  Fitzgerald  appeared 
under  the  same  management. 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

In  the  minds  of  countless  playgoers  the  Casino  is  asso 
ciated  with  much  feminine  talent  and  beauty.  I  shall 
always  remember  the  performance  of  that  exquisite  ac 
tress,  Miss  Sadie  Martinet,  as  Nanon  in  the  opera  of  that 
name.  And  still  more  vividly  do  I  recall  the  dainty 
beauty  of  Phyllis  Rankin  in  The  Belle  of  New  York. 
Marie  Tempest  played  here,  too,  and  so  did  Lillian  Rus 
sell,  Pauline  Hall,  Sylvia  Gerrish,  Marian  Manola,  Lotta 
Faust,  Edna  May,  Marie  Cahill,  Delia  Fox,  Christie 
MacDonald,  and  innumerable  other  possessors  of  beauty 
or  talent  or  both. 

How  many  of  us  recall  the  "Cork  Room"  situated 
under  the  stage  of  Koster  and  Bial's  and  the  enter 
tainers  who  made  the  place  popular?  Madge  Lessing 
was  one  of  these  and  so  was  Georgie  Parker,  now  the 
widow  of  a  well  known  newspaper  man.  Christine  Bless 
ing,  Jenny  Joyce  and  Josie  Gregory  are  also  well  remem 
bered.  Space  does  not  admit  of  a  full  discussion  of  such 
a  wide  and  intricate  theme  as  the  attractive  women  of 
the  New  York  stage. 

I  recall  one  occasion  on  which  I  displayed  a  foresight 
quite  unusual  with  me.  Blakeley  Hall  asked  me  to  re 
view  a  new  piece  called  UOncle  Celestin,  and  afterward 
inquired  rather  disapprovingly  why  I  had  devoted  so 
much  of  my  space  to  a  specialty  which  had  received  but 
scant  praise  from  the  other  critics  who  had  confined 
their  attention  to  the  piece  itself.  To  this  I  made  answer 
that  L'Onclc  Celestin  would  be  forgotten  in  a  very  short 
time  but  that  the  specialty  and  the  performer  who  in 
troduced  it  would  be  talked  of  for  many  a  day  to  come. 
But  even  my  perspicacity,  unusual  as  it  was,  did  not  show 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  253 

me  that  Loie  Fuller  and  her  extraordinary  use  of  lights 
and  draperies  were  destined  to  achieve  world-wide 
renown. 

It  was  during  the  Nineties  that  I  joined  two  clubs, 
both  of  which  remain  pleasantly  in  my  memory.  I  was 
one  of  a  small  group  of  artists  and  writers  who  founded 
the  "Cloister"  in  1894,  establishing  ourselves  in  a  building 
in  Clinton  Place  which  became  later  the  scene  of  much 
festivity.  Our  premises  consisted  of  two  fine  drawing- 
rooms  in  an  old-fashioned  brick  residence,  a  kitchen  and 
front  basement  room  and  a  back  yard  in  which  we  dined 
during  the  summer.  The  initiation  fee  was  ten  dollars 
and  when  we  had  assembled  a  sufficient  number  of  mem 
bers  and  extracted  that  amount  from  each  one  we  paid 
a  month's  rent  of  seventy-five  dollars,  purchased  a  few 
tables  and  chairs  and  called  a  meeting  to  discuss  perma 
nent  operations.  The  balance  of  the  sum  was  judiciously 
invested  by  the  treasurer,  Mr.  H.  L.  Wilson,  in  refresh 
ments  contained  in  bottles  bearing  labels  that  fully  com 
manded  our  confidence.  Warned  by  the  histories  of 
previous  literary  and  artistic  clubs  we  resolved  then  and 
there  not  to  incur  any  debt  and  it  was  this  wise  financial 
policy  that  gave  to  the  club  the  prosperity  it  enjoyed  for 
a  few  years. 

Among  our  earliest  members  were  Edward  W.  Town- 
send,  the  author  of  the  "Chimmie  Fadden"  sketches  and 
subsequently  a  member  of  Congress  and  Postmaster  of 
Montclair;  Alfred  Q.  Collins,  a  gifted  portrait  painter; 
Robert  W.  Chambers,  Reginald  Birch,  Emil  Carlsen,  now 
well  known  as  an  artist ;  John  G.  Dater,  a  financial  writer 
on  the  Herald;  and  H.  C.  Bunner,  W.  C.  Gibson,  Frank 


254  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

M.  Hutchins,  Charles  J.  Taylor  and  R.  K.  Munkittrick, 
all  of  the  Puck  staff.  Our  caterer  was  a  Frenchman 
whose  restaurant  we  had  often  frequented  and  we 
arranged  with  him  to  furnish  coal  and  gas  for  his  kitchen 
and,  if  I  remember  aright,  living  quarters  for  himself 
and  family  on  the  top  floor.  In  return  for  this  he  was 
to  supply  a  good  dinner  for  half  a  dollar,  including  wine, 
and  make  what  he  could  out  of  our  not  inconsiderable  bar 
trade.  No  license  was  required  then,  or  if  there  was  we 
managed  to  evade  it,  and  whenever  our  caterer  showed 
signs  of  discontent  and  complained  of  the  high  price  of 
food  stuffs  we  used  to  encourage  him  by  drinking  bouts 
in  which  every  one  was  urged  to  do  his  best.  Some  of 
us  had  stronger  heads  than  others  and  not  infrequently 
it  became  necessary  for  a  committee  of  the  first-named 
to  lead  some  weaker  brother  to  Broadway  and  hoist  him 
aboard  his  homeward  car.  There  were  even  nights  when 
the  committee  bore  the  fallen  one  to  his  home,  placed 
him  on  the  door-mat,  rang  the  bell  and  then  fled. 

One  feature  in  the  club  that  proved  very  successful 
was  our  admission  to  the  dining-room  of  ladies,  a  privi 
lege  that,  to  my  knowledge,  was  never  abused.  So  long 
as  we  remained  in  our  original  quarters  and  with  our 
earliest  caterer  in  the  kitchen,  the  Cloister  thrived,  but 
when  we  rented  an  entire  house  in  the  theatrical  district 
its  decline  set  in. 

The  other  club  to  which  I  have  referred  never  had  a 
home  and  was  merely  a  group  of  men  who  dined  together 
two  or  three  times  during  the  winter.  In  that  group 
were  Theodore  Roosevelt,  John  J.  Chapman,  Prescott 
Hall  Butler,  Thomas  Hastings,  James  B.  Ludlow,  Robert 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  255 

Bridges,  A.  Longfellow  of  Boston  and  Henry  W.  Poor. 
It  was  an  inconspicuous  affair  that  never  courted  pub 
licity  and  was  content  to  eat  a  modest  dinner  in  one  of 
Muschenheim's  private  rooms  and  to  regale  itself  with 
beer  and  whiskey.  Its  occasional  gatherings  were  ex 
tremely  agreeable,  and  even  the  busiest  of  its  members 
usually  found  time  to  attend.  We  had  neither  officers 
nor  rules  and  we  took  turns  in  arranging  the  meetings. 
I  never  knew  why  it  ceased  to  exist  while  so  many  dreary 
institutions  continued  to  flourish. 

Mr.  Poor,  whom  I  knew  well  for  many  years,  was 
distinctly  a  man  of  parts.  He  amassed  a  large  fortune 
in  Wall  Street  and  built  a  splendid  house  on  the  site  of 
the  old  Cyrus  and  David  Dudley  Field  residences  at  the 
corner  of  Gramercy  Park  and  Lexington  Avenue.  He 
also  owned  a  house  in  Tuxedo  Park  and  another  on  the 
Island  of  Capri  and  was  a  man  of  wide  reading  and  culti 
vated  literary  taste.  In  the  selection  of  poems,  for  the 
anthology  to  which  I  have  referred  in  a  previous  chapter, 
he  rendered  me  great  assistance  and  I  learned  then  to  my 
surprise  that  he  had  made  a  deep  study  of  classic  English 
verse. 

He  raised  a  warning  finger  once  when  I  happened  to 
speak  of  the  stock  market.  "Keep  out  of  it,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "I've  been  on  the  Street  since  the  Sixties  and 
I'm  one  of  the  lucky  ones  simply  because  I've  stuck  to 
my  legitimate  business  as  a  banker  and  broker.  If  I 
were  to  go  on  the  market  to-morrow  as  a  trader  with 
all  those  years  of  experience  behind  me  I  believe  I'd  go 
broke  in  a  year." 

Poor  must  have  been  nearly  seventy  years  of  age  when 


256  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

he  uttered  those  words  of  caution,  and  yet,  before  an 
other  twelve  months  had  passed,  he  had  gone  into  specu 
lation  in  stocks  and  had  lost  the  bulk  of  his  fortune.  His 
library,  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  in  the  city,  was  sold, 
and  his  splendid  house,  built  by  Stanford  White,  was 
torn  down  and  replaced  by  a  tall  apartment  house. 


It  has  been  said  that  every  man  who  has  figured  con 
spicuously  on  Broadway's  green  turf  has  passed  to  his 
ultimate  reward  leaving  at  least  one  aphorism  behind  him. 
A.  M.  Palmer  said  to  me  on  the  day  preceding  his  fatal 
seizure:  "Good  God,  Ford,  isn't  it  enough  if  we  man 
agers  give  the  public  two  hours  and  a  half  of  entertain 
ment  without  throwing  in  a  college  education  to  boot?" 
From  the  wise  lips  of  Henry  Guy  Carleton  fell  this  re 
mark:  "There  are  two  metropolitan  groups  whom  a 
dramatist  may  consider  only  at  his  peril  when  trying  to 
please  and  interest  the  public — the  critics  and  the  Lambs' 
Club." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

experience  on  the  Journal  during  the  early  days 
of  Mr.  Hearst's  ownership  was  one  long  to  be  re 
membered  and  of  great  interest  and  value.  Hearst  was 
the  son  of  one  of  the  early  Nevada  miners,  distinguished 
for  his  "nose  for  ore,"  and  of  a  lady  of  fine  character  and 
unmistakable  breeding.  Rusticated  from  Harvard  be 
cause  of  a  too  vivid  celebration  of  his  father's  election 
to  the  Senate,  young  Willie  returned  to  California  and 
was  met  by  his  parent  with  outstretched,  welcoming  hand. 
Offered  a  choice  between  a  large  ranch,  a  racing  stable 
and  a  silver  mine,  he  said  he  would  prefer  the  San  Fran 
cisco  Examiner,  which  his  father  had  bought  to  aid  him 
in  his  election.  Wisely  enough,  the  son  installed  Samuel 
S.  Chamberlain  as  his  editor  and  it  was  not  long  before 
the  property  became  a  paying  investment.  The  death  of 
Senator  Hearst  left  his  widow  with  a  huge  fortune  on 
her  hands  and  it  was  a  comparatively  easy  matter  for 
her  son  to  persuade  her  that  newspaper  property  under 
his  control  was  the  best  investment  she  could  make.  So 
with  this  huge  capital  behind  him  he  acquired  The  New 
York  Journal  and  came  east  with  Chamberlain  and  some 
of  the  ablest  members  of  the  Examiner's  staff. 

In  those  days,  before  the  advent  of  the  prudent  Car- 
valho,  the  Journal  was  conducted  with  a  reckless  indiffer 
ence  to  expense  that  was  thoroughly  characteristic  of 
its  owner,  who  desired  quick  returns  in  circulation  and 

257 


258  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

did  not  mind  what  they  cost.  This  policy  encouraged 
what  are  termed  "freak  assignments"  which  gratified  my 
taste  for  the  exploration  of  fresh  urban  trails.  I  dis 
covered  and  gave  fleeting  renown  to  some  little-known 
East  Side  concert  halls;  I  went  into  the  heart  of  Brook 
lyn  to  interview  Laura  Jean  Libbey,  and  I  took  the 
Cherry  Sisters  around  town  and  indicated  to  their  won 
dering  gaze  the  principal  objects  of  interest  that  the  city 
afforded. 

Sadder  duties  fell  to  my  lot  when  I  was  called  upon 
to  write  obituaries  of  men  whom  I  had  known  well,  in 
cluding  Bill  Nye,  Eugene  Field  and  Bunner.  I  think 
that  the  last  bit  of  humor  that  came  from  Nye's  pen  oc 
curred  in  a  letter  that  he  wrote  to  Sam  Chamberlain 
concerning  his  unfortunate  experience  in  Paterson. 

"It's  all  a  mistake  about  my  being  rotten-egged  last 
week  in  the  town  of  Spatterson.  They  were  fresh,  every 
one  of  them." 

Sam  Chamberlain  was  my  immediate  superior  in  the 
Journal  office  and  in  time  became  a  valued  friend.  That 
he  continued  such  to  the  day  of  his  death  while  serving 
Hearst  faithfully  all  that  time,  shows  two  of  the  many 
sides  of  his  character.  The  son  of  Ivory  Chamberlain, 
a  well  known  newspaper  man  of  his  day,  Sam  had  been 
bred  to  the  craft  and  was,  moreover,  a  man  of  fine  liter 
ary  taste  and  wide  reading.  In  later  life  he  lived  in 
Chappaqua  and  there,  after  returning  from  his  day's 
work  in  the  Journal  maelstrom,  he  would  mount  a  tele 
scope  in  front  of  his  door  and  remain  for  hours  studying 
the  stars. 

Chamberlain  was  gifted  with  a  news  instinct  that  told 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  259 

him  unerringly  the  relative  importance  of  different  pieces 
of  news,  which  one  should  be  "played  up"  on  the  front 
page  and  which  should  be  relegated  to  a  more  obscure 
column.  An  instance  of  this  that  I  recall  may  seem  com 
monplace  to  experienced  members  of  the  profession  but 
it  impressed  me  strongly  at  the  time. 

Late  one  night,  as  I  was  seated  with  him  in  his  private 
office,  the  city  editor  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  said : 
"Mr.  Chamberlain,  that  murder  story  is  panning  out 
pretty  well  and  I  thought  you  might  like  it  on  the  front 
page.  You  remember  it,  don't  you?  That  man  who 
shot  his  sweetheart  on  a  street-car  ?" 

And  then  Chamberlain  asked  what  seemed  to  me  a 
perfectly  irrelevant  question,  though  it  was  one  that  in 
stantly  settled  the  proper  disposition  of  the  murder  story. 
He  did  not,  as  I  expected  he  would,  enter  into  the  ro 
mance  of  the  tragedy  or  what  is  called  in  Park  Row  the 
"human  interest"  involved  in  it,  but  merely  said  :  "What 
line  was  it  on?"  And  on  learning  that  it  happened  on  a 
Bleecker  Street  car  he  said,  "put  it  on  an  inside  page." 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  exclaimed,  turning 
to  me  as  the  city  editor  departed.  "Can't  you  see  that 
what  happens  on  a  crosstown  line  attracts  but  little  atten- 
ion?  If  this  had  occurred  on  a  Broadway  car  in  front 
of  the  Hoffman  House  with  William  C.  Whitney  on  the 
back  platform  and  Marshall  P.  Wilder  in  front  it  would 
be  worth  a  double  column  spread  on  the  first  page?" 

As  to  Mr.  Hearst  I  must  speak  of  him  as  I  knew  him, 
and  not  as  popular  superstition  represents  him  to  be.  He 
was  a  gentleman  in  manner,  low  voiced  and  more  than 
courteous  in  his  dealings  with  his  employees.  I  do  not 


260  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

think  I  ever  heard  him  use  an  expression  unfit  for  a 
polite  drawing-room  and  he  said  himself  that  he  had  paid 
for  more  liquor  and  drank  less  than  any  man  on  the 
Pacific  Coast.  He  never  seemed  to  consider  money,  and 
the  advertising  end  of  the  business  did  not  interest  him. 
What  he  wanted  was  circulation  which  he  believed  could 
be  best  obtained  by  the  constant  printing  of  sensations. 
When  peace  brooded  over  the  city  and  nobody  was  being 
robbed  or  murdered  he  would  come  down  to  the  office 
with  despondency  written  on  his  face  and  express  the 
opinion  that  everything  was  going  badly,  but  the  tid 
ings  of  some  new  crime  or  disaster  would  rouse  him  to 
instant  action  and  I  remember  that  on  a  certain  develop 
ment  in  the  Guldensuppe  murder  case  he  jumped  into  a 
cab  with  one  of  his  star  men  and  went  to  the  Turkish 
Bath  where  the  victim  had  been  employed. 

But  in  those  days  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  take 
him  seriously,  for  he  reminded  me  of  a  kindly  child, 
thoroughly  undisciplined  and  possessed  of  a  destructive 
tendency  that  might  lead  him  to  set  fire  to  a  house  in 
order  to  see  the  engines  play  water  on  the  flames,  or, 
were  Rome  burning,  to  dance  merrily  to  Nero's  fiddling. 
The  ideal  Sunday  supplement — the  one  best  adapted  to 
Sabbath  reading — was,  in  his  opinion,  a  combination  of 
crime  and  underclothes.  The  passing  years,  however, 
have  convinced  me  that  at  that  time  he  was  building 
better  than  I  knew  and  that  he  had  estimated  the  pro 
portion  of  fools  in  the  community  with  a  perspicacity 
for  which  I  failed  to  give  him  credit.  In  his  calculations 
he  had  evidently  been  guided  by  Carlyle's  studies  of  the 
population  of  Great  Britain. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  261 

I  think  that  it  was  in  this  office  that  the  now  famous 
"sob  sister"  made  her  first  New  York  appearance  and 
certainly  this  sorosis  of  tears  was  well  represented  there. 
Tidings  of  a  colliery  disaster  would  send  one  of  them 
flying  to  the  scene  and  straightway  we  would  receive  a 
despatch  beginning  about  as  follows:  "I  sobbed  my  way 
through  the  line,  the  stern-faced  sentinels  standing  aside 
to  let  me  pass  with  a  muttered,  'the  lady  is  from  the 
Journal;  let  her  by.'  I  was  the  first  to  reach  the  wounded 
and  dying.  'God  bless  Mr.  Hearst,'  cried  a  little  child 
as  I  stooped  to  lave  her  brow;  and  then  she  smiled  and 
died.  I  spread  one  of  our  comic  supplements  over  the 
pale,  still  face  and  went  on  to  distribute  Mr.  Hearst's 
generous  bounty." 

I  learned  once  from  the  lips  of  one  of  these  "sob 
sisters"  how  she  prepared  an  account  of  an  errand  of 
midsummer  mercy  among  the  children  of  the  tenements. 
I  give  the  recital  in  her  own  words : 

"Of  course  the  business  office  kicked  at  everything  like 
expense,  so  the  transportation  and  the  grub  were  paid 
for  in  puffs  and  advertising.  The  ice-cream  man  agreed 
to  furnish  an  unlimited  supply  in  return  for  a  picture  of 
his  daughter,  then  about  to  be  married,  and  a  puff  of  her 
high  social  station.  But  the  cut  went  wrong  in  stereotyp 
ing  and  the  girl  came  out  looking  like  a  chimpanzee,  in 
consequence  of  which  the  old  man  gave  us  only  a  single 
can  of  ice-cream.  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that 
I  induced  about  twenty  children  to  go  down  to  Coney 
Island  as  Mr.  Hearst's  guests,  for  previous  experiences 
had  rendered  them  suspicious,  but  at  last  we  started  and 
all  the  way  down  I  was  trembling  to  think  what  would 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

happen  when  I  dealt  out  that  one  miserable  can  of  cream. 
When  at  last  I  placed  a  dab  on  each  saucer,  a  little  fellow 
in  ragged  knickerbockers  got  up  and  declared  that  the 
Journal  was  a  fake  and  I  thought  there  was  going  to 
be  a  riot." 

"Good  heavens!"  I  cried,  "what  on  earth  did  you  do?" 
"I  took  away  the  ice-cream  from  a  deaf  and  dumb  kid 
who  couldn't  holler  and  gave  it  to  the  malcontent.  Then 
I  had  to  write  my  story  beginning,  'Thousands  of  chil 
dren,  pale-faced  but  happy,  danced  merrily  down  Coney 
Island's  beach  yesterday  and  were  soon  sporting  in  the 
sun-lit  waves  shouting,  "God  bless  Mr.  Hearst!" 

The  Journal  under  Hearst's  early  management,  though 
by  no  means  as  radical  as  it  became  later,  was  a  paper 
well  calculated  to  attract  attention  and  it  was  not  long 
before  cranks  and  others  with  all  sorts  of  schemes  in 
their  heads  began  to  storm  its  doors.  Day  after  day 
a  little  group  of  these,  each  one  of  whom  believed  in 
tensely  in  something,  assembled  in  front  of  Mr.  Hearst's 
private  office  in  the  hope  of  gaining  an  interview  with 
him,  who  believed  in  nothing.  Only  an  oak  door  and  a 
determined  office  boy  stood  between  him  and  the  invad 
ing  mob.  They  had  waited  so  long  and  so  patiently  that 
they  reminded  me  of  the  Millerites  awaiting  the  coming 
of  the  Messiah  and  then  one  morning  to  their  utter 
amazement  the  door  was  flung  open  and  the  great  editor 
who  was  to  redress  so  many  wrongs  if  they  could  only 
get  at  him,  stood  among  them.  But  before  they  could 
buttonhole  him  or  even  get  out  their  petitions  and  docu 
ments,  a  sweet  girl  graduate  of  the  chorus  darted  out, 
touched  him  lightly  on  the  arm  and  with  a  merry  cry, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  263 

"Tag  Billy,  you're  it !"  fled  down  the  long  corridor  with 
Hearst  in  swift  pursuit,  to  be  seen  no  more  forever  by 
the  waiting  cranks. 

Mention  the  name  of  Hearst  in  the  hearing  of  the  ele 
ment  known  variously  as  Capital,  Conservatism,  and  the 
Money  Power  and  straightway  there  ensues  a  beating  in 
the  air  with  one  impotent  fist,  a  hammering  on  the  table 
with  the  other,  and  a  frenzied  recital  of  what  "ought  to 
be  done"  to  this  dangerous  man  who  is  a  menace  to  the 
public  welfare.  This  element  is  usually  lampooned  as  a 
giant  with  great  hairy  hands,  whose  chief  occupation  is 
oppressing  the  honest  sons  of  toil.  Why  does  not  this 
giant  take  up  arms  against  this  menace  to  society  in 
stead  of  talking  about  him?  A  great  many  of  us  would 
be  very  glad  to  see  Mr.  Hearst  put  out  of  business  and 
yet,  despite  the  unlimited  wealth  and  influence  at  its 
back,  this  giant  does  nothing.  Millions  for  tribute,  not 
one  cent  for  defense,  is  his  motto  and  he  lives  up  to  it. 

The  general  belief  is  that  Hearst  is  a  menace  because 
of  his  maniacal  utterances,  but  the  truth  is  that  he  owes 
his  power  to  his  sense  of  humor  in  its  various  phases 
and  his  knowledge  of  ridicule  as  a  most  effective  weapon 
in  a  war  on  intelligence.  He  has  always  employed  artists 
and  writers  of  wit  and  has  moreover  encouraged  them 
to  do  their  best.  Many  of  his  cartoons  have  carried 
great  weight  and  he  was  quick  to  recognise  the  value  of 
the  comic  supplement  as  a  circulation  builder.  His 
struggle  with  Mr.  Pulitzer  over  the  "Yellow  Kid"  series 
created  the  term  "yellow  journalism." 

Were  I  a  cartoonist  I  would  depict  "Capitalistic 
Greed,"  not  as  a  giant,  but  as  a  jelly-fish,  and  Hearst  as 


264  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

a  small  boy  frightening  a  lot  of  big  lubber-lads  with  a 
false  face  and  chasing  them  with  a  bladder  tied  to  the 
end  of  a  stick. 

I  persuaded  Hearst  to  send  me  abroad  on  the  novel 
plea  that  Europe  seen  through  fresh  eyes  would  mean 
entirely  new  impressions.  Just  before  I  started  Rudyard 
Kipling  said  to  me:  "If  you  wish  new  impressions  of 
London,  keep  off  the  beaten  tracks.  Take  a  room  over 
a  barber  shop  in  the  East  End  and  study  the  habits  of  the 
humble  folk  about  you.  They  have  customs  of  their 
own — guinea  pig  exhibitions  for  example — that  I  have 
never  seen  described  in  print.  However,  you  won't  do  it. 
You'll  find  yourself  at  the  Empire  Music  Hall  the  night 
of  your  arrival  and  thence  you  will  march  on  over  paths 
made  smooth  by  the  feet  of  your  countrymen." 

Sure  enough  I  found  myself  at  the  Empire  Music 
Hall  on  the  very  night  of  my  arrival  in  London  and  it 
was  there  that  I  tasted  for  the  first  time  a  "genuine 
American  cocktail"  flavored  with  raspberry  vinegar. 

I  stayed  long  enough  in  England,  most  of  the  time  in 
London,  to  gain  some  knowledge  of  English  life  and 
to  make  some  valued  friends  but  I  did  not  gain  any  of 
the  fresh  impressions  that  I  had  hoped  for.  Were  I 
able  to  punctuate  the  narrative  of  my  stay  with  personal 
anecdotes  of  royalty  and  aristocracy  my  pages  would 
gain  enormously  in  interest,  but  all  that  I  learned  of 
those  exalted  circles  was  at  second-hand  and  therefore 
not  worth  repeating.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  describe  a 
few  of  the  high  spots  in  my  experience  that  remain 
vividly  in  my  memory. 

I    worked    as    assistant    to    Julian    Ralph,    the    cor- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  265 

respondent  of  the  New  York  Journal,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  I  began  to  suspect  that  there  was  something 
wrong  in  the  methods  employed  by  the  average  Ameri 
can  correspondent,  and  by  the  time  I  left  England, 
Ralph  agreed  with  me.  Ballard  Smith,  who  represented 
the  World,  was  always  beating  us  in  news  stories,  the 
fact  being  that  he  and  his  wife  went  much  into  society 
and  thus  learned  what  was  happening  in  the  great  world 
of  politics  and  diplomacy  long  before  those  events  were 
chronicled  in  the  British  press.  For  London  society 
differs  from  that  of  New  York  in  that  important  news 
is  first  heard  there,  whereas  that  of  our  own  metropolis 
is  the  last  pocket  into  which  it  drops.  It  was  a  mere 
accident  that  first  called  my  attention  to  these  condi 
tions.  Ralph  was  indignant  one  morning  because  Smith 
had  beaten  him  by  cabling  what  seemed  to  me  the  unim 
portant  fact  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  going  to  visit 
Mr.  Astor.  "Good  Heavens!"  I  exclaimed;  "is  that 
really  news?  Why,  I  heard  that  four  days  ago  at  a 
dinner-table  and  what's  more  I  can  tell  you  just  what 
it's  going  to  cost  Astor  in  loans  to  the  Prince.  The 
company  seemed  to  figure  it  out  quite  accurately  and 
authoritatively." 

My  theory  was  confirmed  later  when  I  obtained  a  card 
for  a  musicale  in  a  fashionable  house  and  heard  an 
official,  dressed  like  a  salmon  trout,  announcing  in  sonor 
ous  tones  the  names  of  the  guests  as  they  trooped  past 
him  on  the  staircase.  Many  of  the  names  were  of  his 
toric  or  current  renown  and  I  could  not  help  feeling  that 
it  would  be  difficult  for  any  New  York  hostess  to  as 
semble  so  many  persons  of  influence  and  importance  in 


266  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

the  serious  affairs  of  the  nation.  Then  my  host  ex 
plained  to  me  that  matters  of  state  were  intimately  dis 
cussed  by  women  as  well  as  men  at  these  gatherings. 

At  this  time  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  the  most  dis 
cussed  man  in  England  and  I  heard  much  said  both  for 
and  against  him,  for  the  element  generally  termed  non 
conformist  disapproved  of  much  that  he  did,  but  when 
I  saw  him  win  the  Derby  I  gained  an  impression  of  his 
character  that  I  have  never  shaken  off. 

As  the  race  started  the  bookmakers  and  sportsmen 
among  whom  I  stood  in  the  enclosure  took  out  their 
field-glasses  and  followed  the  horses  as  they  swept 
around  the  course.  They  came  down  the  stretch  with 
the  Prince's  "Persimmon"  and  Rothschild's  "St.  Frus- 
quin,"  in  the  lead  and  very  soon  a  mighty  shout,  "St. 
Frusquin  wins!"  went  up  from  a  thousand  throats  and 
continued  with  increasing  force  until  one  man  raised  the 
strident  cry,  "The  Prince  wins!"  This  was  taken  up 
and  spread  through  the  enclosure  and  over  the  entire 
field.  I  could  not  hear  anyone  shout  "Persimmon!"  It 
was  a  tremendous  roar  of  "The  Prince!  The  Prince! 
The  Prince!"  that  culminated  in  such  a  volume  of  sound 
as  I  have  never  heard  from  human  lips  before,  and  as 
the  winner  passed  under  the  wire  the  air  became  darkened 
with  hats.  It  was  the  multitude  that  threw  up  their 
hats,  many  of  them  ragged.  Those  in  the  Royal  En 
closure  removed  theirs  courteously  but  held  them  safe  in 
their  hands.  Then  I  saw  the  heir  to  the  throne  of  Great 
Britain  lead  his  horse  with  the  jockey  still  on  his  back, 
to  the  weighing  stand. 

I  drove  to  the  railway  station  seated  beside  the  driver 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  267 

who  turned  to  me  as  we  started  saying:  "I'm  glad  the 
Prince  won,  sir;  we're  all  glad  'e  won,  for  'e's  a  rare 
good  sort  for  a  man  the  like  o'  me."  And  it  seemed  to 
me  that  it  was  a  mighty  thing  for  a  prince  so  isolated  to 
bridge  the  gulf  between  himself  and  "the  likes  o'  "  that 
cab-driver  and  make  them  all  glad  that  he  won  the  race. 

One  of  the  earliest  of  my  English  friends  and  one 
of  the  best  as  well  was  Phil  May,  the  Punch  artist  whom 
I  shall  always  hold  in  tender  memory.  There  was  an 
indescribable  charm  in  Phil  May  and  I  find  myself  quite 
unable  to  convey  an  idea  of  his  unique  personality. 
Sweet-tempered,  generous  and  friendly,  he  went  about 
London  viewing  its  people  and  especially  the  humbler 
ones,  through  kindly,  humorous  spectacles.  Few  men 
there  were  better  known  by  sight  and  I  have  even  heard 
street  boys  call  him  by  name.  Once,  when  I  was  re 
buking  him  for  his  extravagance,  we  hailed  a  cab  and 
immediately  a  swarm  of  urchins  hurried  forward  to 
usher  us  in  with  cries  of,  "  'Ere  y'  are,  sir !"  closing  in 
on  us  with  officious  pretence  to  aid  us  as  we  climbed  in. 
In  recognition  of  this  perfectly  useless  service,  May 
handed  one  of  them  a  sixpence  and  in  reply  to  my 
remonstrance  said:  "He  was  entitled  to  it.  He  con 
trived  to  get  his  hand  on  the  wheel." 

Another  person  whom  I  came  to  know  very  well  and 
whose  kindness  I  shall  always  recall  with  delight  was 
Mrs.  Mary  St.  Leger  Harrison,  the  daughter  of  Charles 
Kingsley  and  known  to  the  reading  world  as  Lucas 
Malet.  Wisely  enough  she  had  elected  at  the  very  be 
ginning  of  her  career  to  write  under  a  nom  de  plume, 
so  that  her  work  might  not  be  compared  to  its  disad- 


268  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

vantage  with  that  of  her  distinguished  father.  There  is 
no  greater  handicap  to  carry  through  life  than  the  in 
heritance  of  a  famous  name.  Mrs.  Harrison's  books  are 
now  much  better  known  in  this  country  than  they  were 
at  that  time,  thanks  largely  to  the  impetus  given  by  Sir 
Richard  Calmady.  But  The  Wages  of  Sin  which  I  have 
always  regarded  as  the  best  of  her  novels,  is  not  as 
well  known  here  as  it  should  be.  To  read  that  and 
Calmady  is  to  believe  as  I  do,  that  Mrs.  Harrison  is  the 
greatest  writer  of  fiction  of  her  sex  in  the  English-s'peak- 
ing  world,  especially  if  judged  at  her  high-water  mark. 
She  impressed  me  as  combining  in  a  wonderful  way  the 
poise  of  an  Englishwoman  of  the  highest  class  with  the 
sparkle  and  quickness  of  perception  for  which  the  finest 
of  my  countrywomen  are  distinguished. 

Mrs.  Harrison  took  me  to  call  on  Miss  Rhoda  Brough- 
ton  at  the  latter's  home  in  Richmond  and  I  found  her 
exactly  what  I  might  have  imagined  her  to  be,  a  well- 
bred  woman  of  incisive,  rather  cynical  speech  and  keenly 
alive  to  the  foibles  and  pretence  of  the  world  that  she 
knew  so  well.  I  remember  that  on  this  occasion  I  men 
tioned  one  of  America's  most  trusted  delineators  of 
aristocratic  English  life,  Mrs.  Hungerford,  whose  nom 
de  plume  was  "The  Duchess,"  and  learned  to  my  amaze 
ment  that  neither  of  the  women  I  have  named,  nor  Miss 
Rose  Kingsley,  who  was  also  present,  had  ever  heard 
of  her. 

Later  in  the  summer  I  visited  Clovelly  on  the  Devon 
shire  coast  and  through  Mrs.  Harrison  came  to  know  the 
Hamlyns,  the  owners  of  Clovelly  Court,  described  by 
Lord  Tennyson  as  the  ideal  English  country  home. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  269 

Here  I  soon  found  myself  seated  on  a  shady  lawn,  eat 
ing  bread  and  butter  and  drinking  tea,  with  the  local 
curate  hovering  near,  for  all  the  world  as  if  I  were  in 
the  heart  of  an  English  novel. 

I  recall  a  little  episode  in  Mrs.  Harrison's  drawing- 
room  that  furnished  me  with  no  little  amusement.  Before 
leaving  America  an  Englishman  of  dubious  standing 
with  whom  I  had  a  slight  acquaintance,  pressed  upon 
me  a  letter  of  introduction  to  his  cousin,  a  rather  dis 
tinguished  baronet.  This  epistle  opened  in  a  strain  of 
jovial  familiarity — "Dear  George:  You  ought  to  know 
Jim  Ford" — and  I  determined  at  once  that  under  no 
circumstances  would  I  present  it.  Indeed  I  had  forgot 
ten  about  it  until  I  chanced  to  meet  the  wife  of  this 
baronet  at  Mrs.  Harrison's  one  afternoon. 

"So  you  are  from  America,  Mr.  Ford?  My  husband 
has  a  rascally  cousin  who  lives  over  there  and  every  once 
in  a  while  some  awful  bounder  comes  to  our  house  with 
a  letter  of  introduction  from  him.  Of  course  we  never 
let  the  fellow  in  but  I  have  often  wondered  if  it  was  the 
custom  in  America  to  give  letters  of  introduction  so 
freely." 

I  condoled  with  her  sympathetically  and  I  am  sure 
that  she  has  never  learned  that  only  my  circumspection 
saved  her  husband  from  the  visit  of  another  of  those 
"awful  bounders." 

Thanks  to  family  connections  I  was  invited  to  spend 
a  few  days  with  Sir  Seymour  and  Lady  Haden  at 
Woodcote,  their  country  home  in  Hampshire  and  a 
very  delightful  and  interesting  visit  it  proved.  Wood- 
cote  is  an  Elizabethan  house  with  tapestries  three 


270  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

centuries  old  on  the  walls  and  a  priest's  room,  in  which 
I  slept,  on  the  upper  floor,  still  guarded  by  oaken  bars 
and  with  a  tunnel  leading  thence  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
chapel,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  Lady  Haden,  a 
sister  of  Whistler,  was  totally  blind  at  this  time  but 
despite  this  affliction  a  cheerful  and  altogether  delightful 
companion.  Sir  Seymour  had  been  a  physician  in  Lon 
don  for  many  years  before  he  gave  up  his  practice  to 
devote  himself  to  etching,  and  he  had  known  many  of 
the  most  distinguished  men  of  his  day,  numbering  both 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  among  his  patients.  The 
former's  death,  he  said,  was  due  to  his  habit  of  drink 
ing  claret  to  excess,  and  after  every  one  of  the  period 
icals  his  doctor  would  be  called  in  to  restore  him  to 
his  normal  condition.  On  the  eve  of  Christmas  Day, 
1863,  Sir  Seymour  was  summoned  to  aid  him  in  his  re 
covery  from  such  an  attack  and  that  night  he  left  him 
"feeling  pretty  comfortable"  as  he  said  to  me,  adding: 
"The  next  morning  his  valet  found  him  dead.  I  was 
the  last  man  to  see  him  alive." 

Woodcote  was  owned,  I  believe,  by  the  Tichborne 
family  of  litigious  fame,  whose  country  seat  was  in  the 
neighborhood.  According  to  ancient  tradition  the  owner 
of  Woodcote  who  tried  to  live  within  its  walls  in 
variably  died  within  the  first  year  of  his  residence  and 
it  was  this  legend  that  prevented  Sir  Seymour  from 
acquiring  the  property  by  purchase;  but  he  leased  it 
for  the  term  of  his  natural  life  and  there  he  dwelt 
peacefully  until  his  death  in  his  ninety-third  year.  Edwin 
A.  Abbey,  who  visited  him  from  time  to  time,  conceived 
a  strong  liking  for  this  lovely  old  house  in  its  well- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  271 

wooded,  pastoral  setting  and  on  the  death  of  his  friend 
proceeded  to  defy  superstition  and  make  it  his  home. 
He  died  before  he  had  owned  it  a  year. 

There  was  pointed  out  to  me  in  the  neighborhood  one 
of  the  few  survivals  of  a  very  ancient  British  law,  a 
house  that  was  held  on  key-hold.  That  is  to  say,  the 
possession  of  the  door-key  meant  ownership  of  the  house 
and  on  the  death  of  the  owner  the  house  went  to  whom 
ever  could  get  hold  of  the  key.  It  seems  to  me  an  ad 
mirable  law  and  one  destined  to  save  the  money  so  often 
uselessly  spent  in  litigation  between  heirs. 

A  gentleman  whom  I  came  to  know  quite  well  and 
whose  talk  of  by-gone  days  afforded  me  much  delight 
was  John  Hollingshead,  who  had  been  closely  associated 
with  Dickens  in  early  manhood  and  in  later  years  became 
well  known  to  London's  play-going  public  as  the  man 
ager  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre.  I  knew  him  as  an  old  man 
in  much  reduced  circumstances  but  possessed  of  unfailing 
cheerfulness.  He  had  had  his  ups  and  downs  and  I 
never  heard  him  utter  a  word  of  complaint.  He  had 
actually  known  Charles  Lamb  when  he  was  a  small  boy — 
he  was  but  seven  when  the  great  essayist  died — and  he 
told  me  that  he  remembered  him  distinctly,  looking  ex 
actly  as  he  did  in  all  accepted  portraits.  As  a  youth 
Mr.  Hollingshead  lived  with  an  aunt  to  whose  care 
patients  from  a  near-by  insane  asylum  were  frequently 
entrusted,  and  here  he  was  in  the  habit  of  playing  cards 
with  Mary  Lamb,  also  an  inmate  of  the  house,  until 
his  twentieth  year.  He  told  me  something  about  the 
killing  of  Mrs.  Lamb  by  her  daughter  that  will,  I  think, 
soften  the  hearts  of  American  housekeepers  toward  the 


FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

demented  murderess.  It  seems  that  Mary  seized  an 
axe  and  started  to  kill  the  cook  and  it  was  while  trying 
to  defend  the  domestic  that  the  mother  received  her 
deathblow. 

A  visit  paid  to  Cambridge  remains  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  memories  of  my  stay  in  England.  I  went  there 
in  vacation  time  in  company  with  a  friend  who,  as  a 
graduate  of  the  University,  had  the  privilege  of  using 
certain  unoccupied  rooms  in  one  of  the  Colleges.  We 
dined  every  night  with  the  Fellows  in  their  beautiful 
hall  and  spent  the  evenings  in  the  rooms  of  our  various 
entertainers.  It  was  strictly  scholastic  society  in  which 
I  found  myself  but  totally  different  from  that  of  any 
academicians  I  have  known  in  this  country.  Those  who 
composed  it  impressed  me  not  only  as  scholars  in  the 
real  sense  of  the  word  but  as  men  of  the  world  also, 
for  their  education  had  not  ceased  with  the  last  pages 
of  the  books  they  had  read  but  had  been  employed,  to 
gether  with  travel  and  social  intercourse,  in  the  study 
of  that  which  Pope  has  declared  to  be  the  proper  study 
of  mankind.  When  I  was  at  boarding-school,  preparing 
for  the  college  course  which  I  never  had,  I  actually 
thought  that  when  I  mastered  certain  of  the  Latin  and 
Greek  classics  and  higher  mathematics  there  would  be 
nothing  else  for  me  to  learn.  It  has  since  seemed  to  me 
that  many  of  our  own  academicians  show  by  their  public 
utterances  that  they  have  not  yet  advanced  beyond  this 
primitive  form  of  belief. 

A  visit  of  a  totally  different  kind  but  of  equal  pleasure 
and  interest  was  that  which  I  paid  to  the  County  of 
Donegal  in  Ireland.  And  I  have  wondered  ever  since 


JOHN    HOLLINGSHEAD,    A    WELL-KNOWN    LONDON    MANAGER.       IN 

His  BOYHOOD  HE  KNEW  CHARLES  AND  MARY  LAMB 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  273 

why  the  professional  Irish  of  America  do  not  spend 
more  time  in  the  land  whose  wrongs  they  seek  to  redress 
and  less  in  London  when  they  go  abroad.  They  have 
only  to  converse  with  the  peasantry  to  realize  that  the 
gift  of  eloquence  is  not  the  exclusive  property  of  the 
educated.  Frequently  I  was  surprised  at  the  expressions 
that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  untaught  representatives  of 
their  race  and  learned  that  they  were  the  direct  in 
heritance  from  forebears  who  had  learned  their  lessons 
in  hedge  schools  under  the  tuition  of  really  learned  and 
cultivated  priests.  Recorder  Goff,  I  am  told,  is  the  last 
representative  of  this  educational  system  still  alive  in 
New  York. 

So  many  stories  have  been  told  of  Irish  sayings  that 
it  seems  almost  superfluous  to  add  the  following,  one  of 
which  was  told  me  by  a  well  known  priest  of  that  race 
who  was  driving  through  a  county  new  to  him  under  the 
tutelage  of  a  typical  jarvey. 

"A  very  bad  man  lived  there,"  said  the  latter  pointing 
to  a  fine  house  that  stood  directly  in  front  of  a  lake. 
"He  used  to  drive  his  wife  out  into  the  water  beyant 
so  she'd  be  afeared  to  come  home,"  and  forthwith  he 
narrated  other  appalling  evil-doings. 

"And  where  is  he  now?"  inquired  the  priest. 

"That's  for  your  reverence  to  say,"  replied  the  driver, 
deferring  courteously  to  the  superior  theological  knowl 
edge  of  his  fare. 

The  murder  of  Lord  Leitrim  had  occurred  in  the 
neighborhood  that  I  visited  and  I  heard  many  discus 
sions  of  the  event  without  being  able  to  form  any  ac 
curate  opinion  of  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  quarrel 


274  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

between  that  nobleman  and  his  tenants,  until  a  peasant 
who  had  listened  quietly  to  our  talk  had  his  own  say 
in  the  following  words : 

"I  mind  hearin'  tell  of  an  ould  tinant  of  Lord  Leitrim's 
who  set  up  a  public  house  in  America  in  a  place  they 
call  Philadelphia.  Maybe  his  honor  here  knows  where 
that  is."  As  he  had  indicated  me  with  a  wave  of  his 
pipe  I  acknowledged  that  I  did  and  the  speaker  con 
tinued  : 

"When  he  heard  the  news  of  the  ould  Lord's  death, 
he  broached  a  cask  of  liquor  and  set  it  out  on  the  side 
walk  before  his  door  wit'  a  tin  cup  alongside  and  bade 
every  man  that  passed  stop  an'  take  a  drink  because  Lord 
Leitrim  was  dead." 

Twice  I  have  visited  the  continent  of  Europe  in  the 
hope  of  recording  some  profound  observations  on  the 
peoples  of  the  various  countries  and  their  customs,  but 
I  was  seldom  able  to  observe  anything  that  had  not  been 
observed  by  many  previous  travelers.  The  only  thoughts 
that  arose  in  my  breast  when  I  stood  before  the  tomb  of 
Napoleon  under  the  dome  of  the  Invalid es  or  when  I 
saw  the  field  of  waving  grain  at  Waterloo  I  now  realize 
were  too  commonplace  to  bear  recital.  I  took  the  usual 
trip  down  the  Rhine  and  was  impressed  by  the  complete 
absence  of  anything  like  pleasure  travel  and  also  by  the 
theatrical  appearance  of  the  shores  with  their  woods 
and  vineyards.  The  castles  seemed  to  be  placed  exactly 
where  they  were  needed  to  be  most  effective  and  the  entire 
river  might  have  been  set  by  Belasco.  The  vineyards 
were  by  no  means  the  scenes  of  joyous  merriment  that 
comic  opera  has  shown  them  to  be.  I  saw  no  short- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  275 

skirted  maidens  dancing  among  them,  no  inn-keeper  serv 
ing  flagons  of  phantom  beverage  to  his  noble  guests;  nor 
could  I  hear  the  voice  of  Ed  Rice  crying:  "Now  then, 
ladies,  get  a  move  on  you!  People  don't  pay  a  dollar 
and  a  half  to  see  you  fall  asleep!"  During  the  entire 
trip  I  was  accompanied  by  a  swarm  of  flies,  attracted  by 
the  honey  acquired  at  breakfast  in  Mainz.  They  re 
mained,  feasting  on  that  delicacy,  which  I  found  it  im 
possible  to  comb  out  of  my  hair  and  beard,  until  we 
reached  the  mouth  of  the  river. 

Many  of  the  well-meaning  friends  who  have  urged 
me  to  set  down  these  memoirs  have  said  from  time  to 
time,  "I  hope  you  are  making  notes  for  your  future 
book."  In  fact  I  made  several  notes  long  before  I  de 
cided  to  enter  upon  the  work  only  to  find  that  nearly  all 
of  them  were  worthless.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  at  the 
moment  which  one  of  our  acquaintances  is  destined  to 
become  famous  or  which  apparently  insignificant  episode 
will  live  in  history.  In  other  words,  my  foresight,  like 
that  of  many  others,  has  always  been  inferior  to  my 
hindsight. 

There  was  at  one  time  on  West  Forty-second  Street, 
opposite  the  Park,  a  hotel  called  the  Campbell  House, 
kept  by  a  brother  of  May  Irwin  and  sheltering  many 
members  of  the  dramatic  profession,  among  whom  I 
recall  beside  Miss  Irwin,  Mrs.  McKee  Rankin  and  her 
daughter  Phyllis,  Hattie  Williams,  Ada  Lewis,  Ben  Teal 
and  his  wife,  professionally  known  as  Florence  Thorn 
ton,  and  now  the  widow  of  William  Harris,  the  theat 
rical  manager.  I  was  a  frequenter  of  the  Campbell  and 
greatly  enjoyed  the  social  advantages  that  it  offered, 


276  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

among  which  was  my  acquaintance  with  Charles  E. 
Trevathan  and  his  colored  boy,  Cooley.  With  the  char 
acteristic  lack  of  foresight  I  made  no  note  of  this  cir 
cumstance,  little  dreaming  that  I  was  then  actually  pres 
ent  at  the  birth  of  a  school  of  music  that  has  since  gone 
all  over  the  world. 

Trevathan  was  an  easy  going  Southerner  employed 
on  the  Journal  and  sometimes  in  the  capacity  of  judge 
at  western  race  tracks.  He  was  the  best  writer  on 
matters  connected  with  the  turf  that  I  have  ever  known 
and  could  make  the  life  of  a  famous  racer  as  interesting 
as  that  of  a  human  being.  Later  in  life  he  was  em 
ployed  by  William  C.  Whitney  to  prepare  the  chronicles 
of  the  American  trotting  horse. 

It  was  related  of  him  that  once,  while  living  in  San 
Francisco,  his  habitual  distaste  for  work  led  him  to 
embark  on  a  sailing  vessel  for  the  more  congenial  climate 
of  the  Pacific  Isles.  Landing  at  Samoa  he  sought  out  an 
old  friend  named  Dunning,  the  local  representative  of 
the  Associated  Press.  The  two  sat  down  for  friendly 
intercourse  with  several  bottles  before  them  and  were 
thus  engaged  when  the  now  historic  hurricane  burst  upon 
the  island.  By  this  time  Dunning  was  hors  de  combat 
and  Charlie,  moved  by  a  kindly  wish  to  save  his  friend's 
job  for  him,  wrote  and  forwarded  a  description  of  the 
catastrophe  that  went  all  over  the  country  and  inspired 
more  than  one  poem.  The  receipt  of  this  descriptive 
article  with  Dunning's  name  attached,  amazed  the  As 
sociated  Press  officials  who  had  never  believed  their 
correspondent  capable  of  writing  anything  equal  to  it. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  277 

Not  until  Charlie's  return  to  San  Francisco  was  the 
authorship  made  known. 

While  living  at  the  Campbell,  Trevathan  devoted  much 
of  his  time  to  re-making  the  words  and  music  of  the 
songs  that  Cooley  picked  up  in  the  more  disreputable 
resorts  of  his  race.  Master  and  man  worked  well  to 
gether  and  many  a  time  I  have  heard  the  former  say: 
"Ah  feel  awful  cur'is  this  mawnin';  Ah  feel  so  cur'is 
that  Ah  don't  want  to  go  to  work.  Cooley,  go  get  the 
banjos  an'  we'll  rag  over  a  coupla  songs." 

The  two  would  play  together  and  the  colored  boy 
would  often  fall  asleep  and  continue  to  play  until 
Charlie  stopped,  when  he  would  instantly  awake,  rub 
his  eyes  and  look  around  as  if  to  make  sure  of  his 
whereabouts.  I  often  listened  to  them  without  suspect 
ing  that  rag-time  was  being  created  by  their  nimble 
fingers.  It  was  thus  that  I  heard  the  "Frog  Song,"  the 
"New  Bully"  and  "Crappy  Dan,"  long  before  Miss  Irwin 
gave  them  their  great  vogue. 

Through  association  in  playwriting  with  Lorimer 
Stoddard,  I  became  a  frequent  visitor  at  his  home  in 
East  Fifteenth  Street  and  thus  knew  his  father,  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard,  very  well.  The  upper  floor  of  the 
house  was  filled  with  books,  accumulated  by  the  poet 
during  many  years  of  writing  and  reviewing,  and  I 
always  wondered  what  treasures  in  the  way  of  auto 
graphed  first  editions  might  be  hidden  among  them.  I 
knew  the  family  also  in  Sag  Harbor  and  desire  to  put 
on  record  something  that  happened  there  that  gave  me 
an  undying  regard  for  the  elder  Stoddard's  integrity. 

At  that  time  the  proprietor  of  one  of  the  daily  papers 


278  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

had  secured  as  a  leading  contributor  a  new  western 
poet  and  was  doing  his  best  to  boom  him  into  un 
deserved  popularity.  Mr.  Stoddard  had  been  frequently 
importuned  to  print  in  the  literary  column  he  was  then 
conducting  in  an  evening  journal  an  "appreciation"  of 
this  bard  and  had  persistently  ignored  these  requests, 
although  the  handsome  cheque  offered  him  would  have 
been  more  than  welcome  just  then. 

"I'm  too  old  to  make  any  new  enemies,"  said  the  old 
gentleman  to  me  one  day,  "but  I  really  had  to  write 
something  about  that  fellow  just  to  keep  those  people 
from  bothering  me,"  and  what  he  did  write  and  print 
was  that  the  product  of  the  western  poet's  pen  was 
"cheap  chin  music."  After  that  I  never  saw  that  gray 
head  bent  over  its  nightly  task  in  the  hot  glare  of  the 
evening  lamp  without  perceiving  around  it  a  distinct 
halo.  Nor  did  my  respect  for  him  lessen  when  he  re 
turned  to  the  stifling  city  earlier  than  was  his  wont  be 
cause  he  could  not  afford  to  prolong  his  stay  in  the 
cooler  Long  Island  village. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  January  9,  in  the  last  year  of 
this  decade  that  David  Belasco,  who  had  done  excellent 
work  at  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  and  later  at  the 
Lyceum — it  was  at  the  last-named  that  he  formed  the 
association  with  Benjamin  F.  Roeder  that  has  continued 
to  the  present  day — suddenly  came  into  his  own  through 
the  sensational  success  of  his  pupil,  Mrs.  Leslie  Carter 
in  Zaza.  I  regard  Mrs.  Carter's  success  on  the  stage  as 
an  example,  as  yet  unsurpassed,  of  what  can  be  accom 
plished  by  the  skilful  development  of  what  seemed  to 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  279 

other  experts  very  ordinary  talent.  When  she  induced 
Belasco  to  undertake  her  professional  education  and 
management,  Mrs.  Carter  had  few  of  those  gifts  of 
beauty  and  elocution  on  which  managers  are  wont  to 
rely.  But  she  had  temperament  and  industry  to  a  degree 
that  inspired  her  teacher  with  supreme  confidence  in  her 
ultimate  success.  She  had  also  a  voice  of  great  natural 
mobility  and  in  time  she  became  a  complete  mistress  of 
it  so  that  she  could  run  the  whole  gamut  of  human 
emotions  with  a  touch  as  sure  as  that  of  a  Joseffy  on  the 
keys  of  the  piano.  She  had  already  appeared  in  The 
Ugly  Duckling,  Miss  Helyct  and  The  Heart  of  Mary 
land,  when  Belasco  visited  Paris  and  saw  Rejane  in  a 
play  that  several  American  stars  and  managers  had 
refused  on  the  ground  that  it  was  impossible  for  this 
country. 

But  Belasco,  as  usual  wiser  than  his  contemporaries, 
saw  that  Zaza  could  be  adapted  into  a  possibility  and 
proceeded  to  acquire  the  American  rights  and  to  set 
about  the  work  of  adjusting  it  to  the  talents  of  his  star. 
He  changed  the  final  scene  in  such  a  way  as  to  suggest 
the  reform  and  penitence  so  dear  to  American  audiences, 
and  remade  the  stellar  part  to  display  everything  Mrs. 
Carter  could  do  in  the  way  of  emotional  acting.  As 
played  by  her  it  was  one  of  the  longest  parts  ever  en 
trusted  to  the  mercies  of  an  actress.  The  whole  play 
contained  about  thirty-three  thousand  words  and  of  these 
Mrs.  Carter  read  nearly  twenty-seven  thousand. 

Never  in  all  the  history  of  the  English-speaking  stage 
has  the  true  player  spirit  found  finer  expression  than 


280  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

when  Edward  Kean,  in  response  to  his  wife's  eager, 
"What  did  Lord  Essex  say?"  made  answer:  "Damn 
Lord  Essex!  The  pit  rose  at  me!" 

No  novel  of  stage  life  that  I  have  ever  read  describes 
the  debut  of  an  actress  that  even  remotely  suggests  the 
dramatic  interest  of  the  moment  in  which  Mrs.  Carter 
reached  the  climax  of  this  drama  and  of  her  career.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  what  doubts,  hopes  and 
fears  filled  her  mind  that  night  as  she  stood  in  the  wings 
of  the  Garrick  Theatre  awaiting  her  cue,  conscious  that 
everything  that  wise  heads  could  devise  had  been  done 
for  her  and  that  on  her  shoulders  now  rested  the  sole 
responsibility  for  success  or  failure.  Carefully  guard 
ing  her  interests  in  the  box-office  was  Charles  Frohman, 
most  astute  of  managers;  beside  her,  with  words  of  en 
couragement  on  his  lips,  her  teacher,  unequalled  in  stage 
cunning;  behind  her,  nearly  a  decade  of  incessant  work 
and  study;  before  her  such  an  audience  as  New  York 
assembles  only  when  the  occasion  promises  to  become 
historic — an  audience  that  she  must  now  conquer. 

Few  laymen,  even  those  who  are  themselves  habitual 
first-nighters,  ever  consider  the  various  elements,  for 
the  most  part  hostile  or  indifferent,  that  make  up  such 
a  gathering  as  this.  Trained  critics,  their  taste  vitiated 
and  their  enthusiasm  dulled  by  years  of  playgoing;  be 
jewelled  and  over-dressed  women  with  husbands  or 
lovers;  men  of  affairs  and  of  the  learned  professions 
seeking  respite  from  toil  and  anxiety — these,  with  a  gen 
erous  sprinkling  of  the  residuum  found  at  the  bottom 
of  the  retort  after  the  final  analysis  of  humanity  and 
called  "men  about  town,"  composed  the  audience  with 


MRS.  LKSI.IL  CARTER,  FAMOUS  AS  Zaza 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  281 

which  the  actress  found  herself  face  to  face  when,  re 
sponding  to  her  cue,  she  stepped  out  on  the  stage. 

Not  even  the  most  deeply  interested  of  her  auditors 
knew  how  difficult  was  the  task  that  lay  before  her  or 
appreciated  the  skill  with  which  the  combined  work  of 
dramatist,  adapter  and  producer  led  them  along  to  the 
engrossing  scene  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  act.  The 
character  that  Mrs.  Carter  portrayed,  a  French  music- 
hall  singer  of  obviously  loose  morals,  was  one  repugnant 
to  any  American  audience,  especially  to  a  sophisticated 
one  which  had  no  romantic  illusions  regarding  a  woman 
of  that  class.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  to  change 
that  repugnance  into  sympathy,  as  it  had  been  the  task 
of  the  playwright  and  producer  to  create  and  maintain 
a  growing  interest  in  the  drama. 

The  first  act,  with  its  revelations  of  stage  artifice, 
pleased  and  interested ;  sympathy,  aroused  in  the  second 
when  Zaza  learned  that  her  lover  was  a  married  man, 
secured  a  tighter  grip  in  the  third  when  she  visited  his 
wife  and  child  in  Paris  and  withdrew  without  hostile 
demonstration ;  and  by  the  close  of  the  fourth  had  gained 
such  a  secure  hold  that  Mrs.  Carter's  unexpected  tour 
de  force  aroused  a  demonstration  such  as  is  seldom  seen 
save  in  a  Latin  nation.  In  that  outburst  of  long- 
restrained  feeling  every  one  of  the  varied  elements  com 
posing  that  gathering  joined  in  perfect  accord.  For 
the  actress  it  was  a  moment  of  triumph  in  which  she 
might  well  have  damned  the  entire  peerage.  The  house 
had  at  last  risen  at  her. 

I  have  not  written  this  to  prove  Mrs.  Carter  a  great 
actress  or  Zaza  a  great  play  but  rather  to  describe  what 


282  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

happened  that  night  and  to  express  the  hope  that  the 
lesson  that  it  conveys  will  not  be  entirely  lost  on  the 
new  generation  of  players. 

I  have  devoted  space  to  this  recital  of  an  occasion 
that  marked  the  high-water  mark  in  a  once  popular 
player's  career,  because  I  wish  to  convey  an  idea  of 
that  little-understood  branch  of  theatric  art  called  "prepa 
ration." 

Few  persons  who  are  moved  to  laughter  or  tears  by 
an  amusing  or  serious  episode  or  situation,  have  any 
conception  of  the  skill  with  which  the  dramatist  has 
already  prepared  them  for  the  resultant  moment.  Once 
I  complimented  Joe  Weber  on  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  awakened  uproarious  laughter  by  his  artless  read 
ing  of  a  humorous  line  which,  in  my  innocence,  I  had 
supposed  was  an  accidental  interpolation,  conceived  per 
haps  by  himself.  To  this  he  made  answer,  "You've  no 
idea  how  long  it  took  us  to  get  that  line  in.  There 
was  several  minutes  of  preparation  before  it."  Not 
until  I  had  seen  the  piece  again  was  I  able  to  trace  this 
long  process  of  preparation.  In  the  case  of  Mrs.  Carter 
the  period  of  preparation  lasted  nearly  ten  years  instead 
of  as  many  minutes,  but  it  all  led  up  to  the  moment  in 
which  she  enjoyed  the  supreme  triumph  that  so  seldom 
comes  to  even  the  most  distinguished  actor. 

"What  has  become  of  Mrs.  Carter?"  is  a  question  that 
has  often  been  put  to  me  with  ever  lessening  frequency 
during  the  past  few  years.  And  it  sometimes  leads  me 
to  ask :  "What  becomes  of  any  actress,  Bernhardt  alone 
excepted,  when  she  parts  from  her  manager?"  The 
career  of  Ada  Rehan  after  the  death  of  Augustin  Daly, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  283 

of  Ellen  Terry  after  she  left  Irving,  and  of  Duse  after 
she  left  the  direction  of  her  wise  parents  to  serve  under 
a  poet,  are  all  cases  in  point.  To  think  of  all  these 
women  is  to  understand  that  Du  Maurier  knew  what  he 
was  about  when  he  drew  the  character  of  Svengali. 

Mrs.  Carter's  triumph  was  also  Belasco's,  and  in  a 
much  greater  degree,  for  it  had  revealed  him  in  the 
double  capacity  of  manager  and  instructor  and  there 
are  always  thousands  of  young  women  in  search  of 
both.  He  proceeded  to  extend  his  activities  in  both  fields 
by  purchasing  Hammerstein's  Theatre  and  rebuilding 
it  and  by  undertaking  the  management  of  Blanche  Bates 
and  other  stars.  His  success  in  developing  talent  created 
a  furor  in  the  ranks  of  the  profession  and,  as  my  own 
friendly  relations  became  known,  my  mail  was  flooded 
with  requests  to  be  "put  next  him."  Once,  while  wait 
ing  in  the  lower  hall  of  a  theatrical  boarding-house  I 
heard  a  bath-robed  actress  on  the  upper  landing  say  in 
the  voice  of  illiteracy:  "Look  what  he  done  for  Carter! 
Look  what  he  done  for  Bates!  If  he  done  it  for  them 
he  can  do  it  for  me  and  I've  got  a  friend  that  says  he 
must." 


About  this  time  the  disastrous  influence  of  the  great 
Duse  on  our  own  players  was  noted  with  regret  by  cer 
tain  keen  observers  of  the  nation's  advancement  in  the 
arts.  The  critics  had  written  that  she  was  "natural,"  a 
peculiarity  to  which  many  actresses  had  not  been  blind. 
Now  Duse  was  natural  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
but  artificial  naturalism  is  often  a  cloak  to  conceal  greater 


284  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

sins  against  art,  and  one  that  even  actors  of  the  first 
rank  have  been  tempted  to  assume.  Edwin  Booth's  wife 
warned  her  husband  against  this  fault  in  a  letter  in 
which  she  instanced  Matilda  Heron  as  one  guilty  of  it. 
But  no  sooner  was  the  Italian  player's  genius  recognized 
than  the  word  went  forth  that  naturalism  was  the  high 
road  to  such  fame  as  hers,  and  straightway  scores  of  im 
mature  actresses,  quick  to  imitate  whatever  they  thought 
was  novelty,  became  natural  in  such  an  unnatural  degree 
that  it  was  hard  to  guess  what  they  were  driving  at. 
Nor,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  did  one  of  them  reveal 
in  her  efforts  the  smallest  understanding  of  the  great 
Italian's  superbly  simple  method  by  which,  although 
speaking  in  an  alien  tongue,  she  held  her  audience  in 
the  very  hollow  of  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  the  annals  of  the  first  decade  of  the  new  century 
the  march  of  literature  and  the  drama  is  punctuated 
by  certain  indelible  marks,  written  in  the  red  ink  with 
which  episodes  of  historic  significance  are  usually  in 
scribed.  Chief  among  these  episodes  were  the  begin 
nings  of  muck-raking  and  best-sellers  and  the  increased 
attention  paid  to  dramas  of  the  Ibsen  school,  first  seen 
here  in  the  previous  decade. 

It  was  mere  chance  that  gave  muck-raking  its  oppor 
tunity  to  swell  magazine  circulation.  One  evening  at 
a  party  given  by  Mr.  John  A.  Thayer,  one  of  the  owners 
of  Everybody's  Magazine,  the  conversation  turned  on  an 
interview  with  Mr.  Thomas  Lawson,  printed  in  the  New 
York  World,  and  two  days  later,  Thayer  and  his  editor, 
John  O'Hara  Cosgrave,  went  to  Boston  to  see  Lawson; 
but  it  was  not  until  much  later  that  the  spectacular  finan 
cier  was  induced  to  talk.  The  first  of  the  series  appeared 
in  July,  1904,  at  which  time  the  magazine  had  a  circu 
lation  of  300,000,  to  which  150,000  were  added  in  order 
to  supply  the  demands  for  the  first  Lawson  installment. 
By  September  the  circulation  had  reached  nearly  the 
million  point  and  during  the  two  years  in  which  the 
series  ran  the  average  was  750,000.  During  this  time 
Mr.  Cosgrave  was  obliged  to  live  in  Boston  and  literally 
drag  the  copy  out  of  the  author,  month  after  month. 

Like  many  another  man  who  writes  slowly  and  with 

285 


286  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

difficulty,  Lawson  was  entertaining  when  he  did  write, 
and  the  success  of  his  articles  was  largely  due  to  their 
amusing  quality.  Other  magazines  were  quick  to  take 
up  muck-raking  as  a  circulation  builder ;  McClure  muck 
raked  the  Standard  Oil  Company  and  Christian  Science, 
and  before  long,  nearly  every  great  industry  in  the  coun 
try  was  being  ripped  asunder  and  its  entrails  exposed  to 
the  public  gaze.  Eventually  McClure  realized  that  the 
boom  was  over  and  refused  "The  Horrors  of  the  Tooth- 
Pick  Trust,"  saying:  "We're  going  to  have  a  year  of 
sunshine  now." 

I  always  regarded  Mr.  Hearst  as  the  real  creator  of 
the  best-seller,  for  his  papers,  with  their  frenzied  edi 
torials  and  picturesque  Sunday  supplements,  developed 
a  demand  for  that  which  was  frankly  fiction  in  the  minds 
of  a  vast  number  of  people  to  whom  the  reading  habit 
had  been  previously  unknown.  David  Harum,  the  first 
of  the  best-sellers,  appeared  in  1898,  and  was  a  story 
that  even  the  least  enlightened  person  could  understand. 
It  was  the  work  of  an  amateur  named  Westcott  who,  sad 
to  relate,  did  not  live  to  see  what  his  hand  had  wrought. 
It  was  a  simple,  old-fashioned  tale  of  bucolic  life  which 
owed  a  great  deal  of  its  popularity  to  the  chapter  describ 
ing  a  transaction  in  horse  flesh  in  which  its  hero  got  the 
best  of  a  country  deacon.  At  the  advice  of  the  late  Rip- 
ley  Hitchcock,  who  accepted  the  story  for  the  Appletons, 
this  chapter  was  transferred  to  the  earlier  pages  of  the 
novel  where  it  was  more  likely  to  enchain  the  fancy  of 
the  careless  reader.  The  book  reached  a  sale  of  innu 
merable  copies  and  was  followed  by  Janice  Meredith, 
The  Honorable  Peter  Sterling  and  others  of  its  kind. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  287 

Sterling  was  read  with  serious  interest  by  a  great  many 
apparently  sophisticated  persons,  but  to  those  familiar 
with  urban  life  its  pictures  of  downtown  politics  and  of 
the  East  Side  saloon-keeper  who  did  not  wish  his  patrons 
to  drink  too  much  were  absurd. 

Ibsen  had  already  been  revealed  to  the  town  in  a  previ 
ous  decade  but  it  was  not  until  the  new  century  that 
his  plays  began  to  acquire  their  vogue  among  the  large 
owlish  class  who  were  utterly  unable  to  understand  them. 
I  witnessed  one  or  two  of  them  in  that  cavern  under 
the  Carnegie  building  where  so  many  foul  crimes  against 
dramatic  art  have  been  committed,  and  noted  with  dis 
may  the  open-eyed  wonder  and  respect  with  which  bad 
acting  was  regarded.  It  was  not  long  before  Ibsen 
matinees  became  extremely  popular  with  the  element 
that  constantly  clamours  for  the  "higher  intellectual 
drama"  and  will  not  pay  to  see  it.  I  have  never  yet 
met  a  professional  "Ibsenite"  who  understood  the  plays 
he  pretended  to  admire  or  realized  that  those  actors  who 
sedulously  built  up  the  chief  roles  by  the  tricks  and  de 
vices  that  have  made  the  star  system  what  it  is,  were 
violating  every  rule  laid  down  by  the  great  dramatist.  I 
have  always  believed  that  the  Ibsen  drama,  now  regarded 
as  a  sort  of  house  of  refuge  for  bad  actors,  could  be  pre 
sented  profitably  in  cheap  theatres  where  it  would  be 
better  understood. 

In  the  summer  of  1906  I  occupied  an  apartment  in 
the  Bella,  directly  opposite  Madison  Square  Garden,  and 
one  night  the  sound  of  a  pistol  fired  in  the  roof  garden 
which  surrounded  that  place  of  amusement  was  distinctly 
heard  by  those  dwelling  across  the  way.  Scant  atten- 


288  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

tion  was  paid  to  it  and  it  was  not  until  the  next  morning 
that  we  learned  that  a  single  bullet,  fired  by  a  degenerate 
young  man,  had  robbed  New  York  of  a  citizen  to  whom 
the  town  owed  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  his  beautifying 
handiwork  and  had  at  the  same  time  started  a  young 
woman  on  her  way  to  the  Mecca  of  her  kind,  the  top 
line  on  vaudeville  programmes. 

Never  have  I  known  such  wholesale  injustice  as  the 
murder  of  Stanford  White,  the  escape  of  the  assassin 
from  the  full  penalty  of  his  act,  the  slight  left  upon  the 
victim's  reputation,  and  the  later  prosperity  of  the  young 
woman  who  was  the  cause  of  it  all. 

In  considering  Stanford  White  we  should  take  into 
account  the  fact  that  he  labored  under  the  burden  of 
inherited  sensuality.  That  he  was  a  man  of  loose  life 
was  so  insistently  dwelt  upon  by  the  lawyers  who  de 
fended  the  murderer  as  well  as  by  the  corps  of  "sob 
sisters"  who  nursed  the  young  woman's  budding  vaude 
ville  ambitions,  that  the  public  was  firmly  convinced  that 
the  distinguished  architect  "got  all  that  was  coming  to 
him."  Of  the  many  admirable  qualities  known  only  to 
his  wide  circle  of  friends,  very  little  was  made  public. 
Yet  no  man  ever  displayed  a  more  generous  solicitude 
for  the  struggling  members  of  his  craft  than  did  Stan 
ford  White.  He  would  note  among  the  names  of  those 
posted  for  delinquency  in  the  Players'  Club,  that  of  an 
artist  whom  he  knew  to  be  embarrassed  by  illness, 
family  responsibilities  or  temporary  hard  luck,  and 
would  pay  the  artist's  dues  from  his  own  pocket,  pro 
cure  work  for  him  in  the  decoration  of  one  of  his  build 
ings  and  bid  him,  to  quote  his  words  oft  repeated  in  such 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  289 

cases,  "get  into  the  game  again."  Early  in  the  evening 
on  which  he  was  murdered  he  attended  a  Directors'  meet 
ing  at  one  of  his  clubs  at  which  the  question  of  dropping 
a  delinquent  member  came  up  for  discussion. 

"He's  had  hard  luck  of  late,"  said  White,  "now  he's 
getting  on  his  feet  and  I  happen  to  know  that  it's  a  great 
advantage  to  him  to  belong  to  this  club.  Better  let  the 
matter  rest  till  our  next  meeting." 

"But,"  rejoined  another,  "we've  no  choice  in  the  mat 
ter;  we've  got  to  follow  the  rules." 

"Very  well,  then,  I'll  settle  for  him  myself."  The 
amount  was  a  little  over  a  hundred  dollars  and  although 
the  delinquent  was  not  one  of  White's  intimate  friends, 
little  more  than  an  acquaintance,  in  fact,  the  architect 
paid  his  dues  from  his  own  pocket.  It  was  his  last  act 
of  generosity.  An  hour  later  a  shot  fired  at  him  from 
behind  stretched  him  on  the  floor  of  the  roof -garden 
where  he  lay  motionless  in  the  midst  of  the  startled 
crowd  until  a  compassionate  waiter  threw  a  table-cloth 
over  him. 

Consistent  with  his  kindness  to  his  friends  was 
White's  treatment  of  the  girl  Evelyn.  It  was  brought 
out  at  the  trial  that  on  festive  occasions  he  limited  her 
to  a  single  glass  of  wine  and  that  he  paid  for  her  educa 
tion  at  Mrs.  De  Mille's  boarding-school.  He  was  also 
paying  for  her  brother's  living  at  the  moment  of  his  own 
death. 

Thaw  was  a  Pittsburgh  product,  the  son  of  a  hard- 
headed  Scotchman,  who  had  amassed  a  great  fortune 
and,  fully  realizing  the  boy's  weakness  of  character, 
limited  his  allowance  by  will  to  fifty  dollars  a  week. 


290  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

This  his  widow  injudiciously  increased  to  an  almost  un 
limited  degree,  for  Harry  found  it  easy  to  persuade  her 
that  such  articles  of  necessity  as  feminine  companion 
ship,  plush- furnished  New  York  flats,  champagne  and 
hypodermic  syringes  and  drugs  could  not  be  enjoyed  on 
the  income  assigned  him  by  his  father.  So  well  did  he 
make  use  of  his  new  opportunities  that  it  was  not  long 
before  he  had  been  put  out  of  at  least  three  hotels. 

Evelyn  Nesbitt  was  another  Pittsburgh  product,  but 
of  a  class  different  from  Thaw.  She  first  came  into 
public  view  on  the  stage  of  Mrs.  Osborne's  Playhouse, 
where  her  good  looks  attracted  the  attention  of  many 
young  men  of  fashion,  and  it  was  here,  I  believe,  that  the 
rivalry  between  White  and  Thaw  began.  With  a  skill 
that  seems  native  to  girls  of  her  tendencies,  Evelyn 
nursed  Thaw's  resultant  jealousy  by  telling  him  of  what 
White  was  doing  for  her  and  promising  to  do  in  the 
way  of  money.  With  his  evil  passions  thus  aroused 
Thaw  hired  private  detectives  to  spy  on  his  rival  and 
for  many  months  they  kept  on  his  trail. 

A  few  days  before  his  death  White  called  at  the 
rooms  of  an  intimate  friend  of  mine  and  asked  per 
mission  to  sleep  for  a  while  on  his  sofa,  adding,  "I'm 
all  worn  out  with  this  business  and  don't  really  know 
how  it  will  end.  Sometimes  I  feel  like  going  to  Europe 
for  a  while  just  to  get  away  from  it.  Look  out  of  the 
window  and  you'll  see  what  I  mean." 

My  friend  looked  out  and  saw  two  men  seated  on 
the  steps  of  the  opposite  house,  and  when,  an  hour  later, 
his  guest  departed,  he  saw  those  men  pick  up  the  trail 
and  follow  him  up  the  street. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  291 

I  knew  White,  not  intimately,  for  nearly  twenty 
years  and  I  have  seldom  received  a  greater  shock  than 
I  did  when  I  first  heard  of  his  death.  Richard  Harding 
Davis  printed  in  Collier's  Weekly  a  fine  and  convincing 
vindication  of  his  character,  but  otherwise  he  was  un 
justly  maligned,  especially  by  persons  and  newspapers 
out  of  town.  Great  stress  was  laid  on  the  studio  in 
West  Twenty-fourth  Street  in  which  it  was  claimed  that 
drugs  were  administered  to  his  victims.  I  have  been  in 
that  studio  many  a  time  and  can  cheerfully  testify  that 
I  never  met  a  lady  there  who  needed  any  drugs. 

Crime  as  well  as  politics  makes  strange  bed-fellows. 
The  first  hand  extended  in  greeting  to  Thaw  as  he  entered 
Matteawan  was  that  of  Quimbo  Appo,  said  to  be  the  first 
Chinese  of  the  lower  caste  ever  brought  to  this  country, 
and  the  father  of  George  Appo,  in  whom  are  united  the 
occult  craft  of  the  East  and  the  various  qualities  that 
compose  an  evil-doer  of  western  upbringing.  It  was  the 
younger  Appo  who,  in  the  course  of  his  testimony  before 
the  Lexow  committee,  enriched  our  language  with 
"come-on,"  "come-back"  and  "he  trun  a  scare  into  him." 
That  Thaw,  whose  only  friends  had  been  those  attracted 
by  his  reckless  money-spending,  should  have  rejected  the 
only  hand  ever  extended  to  him  in  unselfish  spirit  seems 
amazing. 


About  this  time  the  word  "psychology"  and  its  little 
brood  of  derivatives  were  observed  roaming  through  the 
upper  reaches  of  the  dramatic  profession,  unable  to  make 
themselves  understood  or  to  speak  the  language  of  Broad- 


292  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

way.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  their  worth  was 
recognized  and  won  for  them  a  cordial  welcome  to  the 
vulgate.  Players  who  had  previously  been  content  with 
melodramatic  roles  of  stirring  interest  began  to  talk 
about  the  "psychology  of  the  audience"  and  to  clamour 
for  "psychological,"  once  called  "thinking"  parts.  Coin 
cident  with  the  invasion  of  these  terms  reporters  of  mid- 
western  nativity  and  not  yet  acclimatized  to  urban  ways 
began  to  write  and  talk  about  "little  old  New  York."  I 
have  noted  these  incidents  to  show  the  constant  advance 
of  art  and  letters. 


In  the  construction  of  the  New  Theatre,  one  may  see 
an  example  of  commercial  or  box-office  management  run 
wild.  The  chief  good  that  it  accomplished  lay  in  the 
instruction  that  it  imparted  by  its  failure  to  men  of 
wealth  and  to  the  theatrical  profession. 

It  is  not  fair  to  attribute  unworthy  motives  to  the 
founders  of  this  monstrous  folly.  Their  object  was  not, 
as  so  many  would  have  us  believe,  a  sordid  desire  to  make 
money.  They  wished  to  give  New  York  a  theatre  in 
which  plays  of  the  highest  merit  should  be  produced,  not 
by  stars  but  by  a  company  of  great  and  even  merit.  The 
mistake  that  they  made  was  in  believing  that  money  was 
as  powerful  in  art  as  in  Wall  Street,  a  delusion  that  will 
never  be  completely  knocked  out  of  the  heads  of  those 
persons  whose  confidence  in  the  enterprise  was  expressed 
in  the  terse  phrase:  "They're  sure  to  succeed!  Look  at 
all  the  money  they've  got!"  Which  was  precisely  what 
they  would  have  said  had  Messrs.  Morgan  and  Rocke- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  293 

feller  collaborated  in  the  painting  of  a  picture  or  the 
writing  of  a  drama. 

The  founders  were  undoubtedly  influenced  by  the  be 
lief  then  current  that  the  Syndicate,  then  largely  in  con 
trol  of  the  theatre,  was  not  living  up  to  its  policy  of 
"giving  the  public  what  it  wanted"  and  was  simply  de 
voting  its  energies  to  the  making  of  money.  Not  even 
the  fact  that  large  box-office  receipts  were,  to  a  certain 
extent,  evidence  that  the  public  was  getting  what  it 
wanted,  could  prevent  the  spread  of  this  notion.  So  far 
as  I  know  managers  have  always  been  the  subject  of  gen 
eral  opprobrium.  I  myself  have  heard  abuse  heaped  upon 
the  heads  of  Wallack,  Palmer  and  Augustin  Daly,  each 
one  of  whom  rendered  material  aid  in  the  development 
of  our  national  drama.  That  the  founders  of  the  New 
Theatre  earnestly  desired  to  give  theatre-goers  some 
thing  better  than  that  which  was  vouchsafed  to  them  by 
other  managers  is  indisputable,  but  they  went  about 
their  work  in  the  wrong  way  and  in  a  spirit  of  con 
descension  that  was  the  seed  of  their  failure. 

For  it  is  essential  that  dramatic  art  should  look  up 
to  its  audience  and  not  down.  The  hero  or  heroine  of 
a  play  becomes  so  only  by  virtue  of  misfortune,  just  as 
the  blind  girl  in  The  Two  Orphans  became  automatically 
the  heroine  of  that  play  and  its  star  part.  All  the  tradi 
tions  of  the  English  stage  point  to  this  fact  and  have 
long  since  found  expression  in  the  term,  "the  public's 
most  humble  and  grateful  servant,"  employed  by  great 
players  like  Garrick  and  Siddons.  And  no  actor  of  ex 
perience  will  deny  that  the  greatest  respect  must  be 
accorded,  not  to  those  who  loll  in  the  boxes  and  stalls, 


294  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

but  to  those  in  the  cheaper  seats,  for  it  is  they  who  have 
made  the  greater  sacrifice  to  secure  entrance.  "Consider 
that  awful  thing  you  have  before  you,  that  collection 
of  human  hearts,  and  respect  it,"  said  Bronson  Howard, 
addressing  his  fellow-dramatists. 

Yet  despite  these  worthy  traditions,  the  founders 
entered  upon  their  venture  in  disregard  of  these  humbler 
folk,  for  they  chose  a  site  more  conveniently  reached 
by  automobile  than  by  the  ordinary  democratic  means 
of  transit,  a  lonely  spot,  opposite  Central  Park,  where 
the  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  infrequent  passing 
of  the  Eighth  Avenue  car  or  the  shrill  note  of  the  bittern 
calling  to  its  mate.  The  venture  was  launched  with 
appropriate  ceremonies  at  the  laying  of  the  cornerstone 
and  later  at  the  dedicatory  exercises,  and  both  occasions 
attracted  a  group  of  millionaires  calculated  to  make  the 
anarchistic  mouth  water.  Speeches  were  made  and  pass 
ages  from  Shakespeare  recited  but  no  one  thought  of 
uttering  the  phrase  best  suited  to  the  occasion,  "In  the 
name  of  the  prophet,  figs !" 

The  scheme,  in  the  vision  of  all  true  believers  in  the 
miraculous  powers  of  gold,  certainly  promised  well  at 
the  start  and  its  promises,  so  far  as  the  beauty,  capacity, 
and  stage  accoutrements  of  the  building  went  were  well 
kept.  The  seats  were  wide  and  soft  and  there  were  ele 
vators  ready  to  convey  to  the  upper  gallery  persons  who 
seldom  went  there.  I  remember  that  when  Dr.  Cook  dis 
appeared  from  view  on  the  heels  of  his  exposure,  and 
reporters  were  hunting  for  him  everywhere,  Charlie 
Dillingham  said:  "I  know  where  he  is;  he's  hiding  in 
the  gallery  of  the  New  Theatre."  But  when,  at  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  295 

dress  rehearsal  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  the  opening 
piece,  "a  bit  of  flapping  painted  canvas  was  seen  to  rep 
resent  Cleopatra's  barge,"  and  when  even  then  the  non- 
stellar  policy  was  set  at  naught  by  the  engagement  of 
that  very  well  known  star,  Mr.  Sothern,  faith  in  the 
promises  began  to  wane.  The  acoustics  were  found  to 
be  faulty,  which  may  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that 
Conried,  who  was  the  first  to  get  his  finger  into  the  man 
agerial  pie,  had  secret  designs  on  the  building  as  the 
future  home  for  grand  opera. 

In  Mr.  Galsworthy's  Strife,  the  management  pre 
sented  a  play  of  really  great  merit  and  one  that  might 
have  enjoyed  widespread  popularity  had  it  not  been  for 
the  attitude  of  condescension,  which  under-rated  the  in 
telligence  of  the  public.  In  order  to  meet  this  general 
ignorance  of  the  American  people  as  to  English  cus 
toms,  the  play  was  localized  and  the  scene  changed  from 
a  British  manufacturing  city  to  the  neighborhood  of 
Pittsburgh,  with  the  result  that  toil-stained  workingmen 
took  afternoon  tea.  Nevertheless,  the  production  gave 
opportunities  to  two  splendid  actors,  both  of  whom  gave 
noteworthy  performances.  One  of  these  was  Albert 
Bruning,  a  graduate  of  the  German  stage  and  long  es 
tablished  here  in  popular  esteem ;  the  other,  the  English 
actor,  Mr.  Calvert,  and  the  drama  was  based  on  the 
conflict  between  labor  and  capital.  As  a  working  man 
of  more  than  ordinary  intelligence,  Mr.  Bruning  was 
arrayed  against  the  other  player,  the  manager  of  a  great 
factory,  and  the  conflict  played  by  two  such  artists  was 
one  of  vital  interest.  Mr.  Ferdinand  Gottschalk  gave  a 
fine  portrayal  of  a  wealthy  shareholder  in  the  factory, 


296  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

but  as  it  was  a  distinctively  English  shareholder  and  not 
the  sort  of  man  who  puts  his  money  into  a  Pittsburgh 
enterprise,  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  he  learned  his  part 
before  the  piece  was  altered. 

The  New  Theatre  lasted  four  years  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time  its  founders  realized  that  they  had  spent 
about  four  millions  of  dollars  and  had  nothing  to  show 
for  their  money  except  a  theatre  that  it  was  almost  im 
possible  to  lease.  It  did  not  develop  a  single  actor  or 
dramatist,  so  far  as  my  memory  serves,  and  its  pro 
ductions  that  were  afterward  seen  in  other  theatres  were 
The  Blue  Bird  and  Edward  Sheldon's  The  Nigger.  It 
did,  however,  succeed  in  fastening  the  opprobrious  term 
of  "commercial"  on  all  the  other  theatres,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  it  was  itself  founded  on  money,  carried  along 
on  money  and  abandoned  because  it  lost  money.  All 
of  which  drew  from  the  lips  of  that  profound  logician, 
Professor  William  L.  Phelps,  a  Yalean  utterance  that 
should  go  down  through  the  ages  as  an  expression  of  the 
academic  school  of  thought:  "The  most  important 
event  in  the  history  of  the  American  drama  was  the 
laying  of  the  cornerstone  of  the  New  Theatre." 


About  this  time  the  term  "Greek  note"  entered  into 
competition  with  "psychology"  and  its  derivatives  in  the 
lexicon  of  the  theatrical  profession,  and  was  seized  upon 
with  avidity  by  stars  and  producers  as  a  means  of  stimu 
lating  activity  at  rehearsals.  The  term  is  believed  to  have 
had  its  origin  in  one  of  the  upper  strata  of  what  we 
used  to  call,  "chromo-literary  society,"  for  it  was  first 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  297 

introduced  behind  the  foot-lights  by  a  player  who  had 
been  able  to  exhibit  himself  in  one  of  the  salons  of  the 
period.  "You  want  to  sound  the  Greek  note  in  that 
scene!"  was  the  phrase  with  which  he  stunned  the  com 
pany  one  morning.  "What  is  the  Greek  note?"  inquired 
the  ingenue  with  equally  stunning  effect.  "Well,"  he 
replied  after  a  moment's  thought,  "if  you  don't  under 
stand  the  English  language  of  course  I  can't  explain  it 
to  you.  Go  on  with  the  lines  and  we'll  do  the  best 


we  can." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  New  Theatre  proved  of  benefit  to  me  in  an 
entirely  unexpected  way.  I  had  ridiculed  it  from 
the  very  start  and  had  predicted  its  failure  in  a  printed 
article  that  I  set  about  writing  on  the  very  day  that 
Professor  Phelps  regards  as  one  of  epoch-making  im 
portance.  I  had  also  laughed  at  an  intimate  friend  of 
mine,  Mr.  Robert  B.  Van  Cortlandt,  who  was  one  of  its 
founders,  and  I  remember  that  on  one  occasion  we  almost 
came  to  blows  about  it  while  lunching  at  the  Cafe  Martin. 
I  remember  also  that  after  the  scheme  had  collapsed  he 
showed  me  the  season  ticket  to  the  building  that  repre 
sented  his  total  investment  and  told  me  sadly  how  much 
it  had  cost  him.  But  the  fulfilment  of  my  prophecy  gave 
him  faith  in  my  ability  and  it  was  he  who  backed  my 
subsequent  venture,  The  Porcupine. 

From  the  time  when  I  began  to  contribute  to  Puck  I 
have  always  had  a  keen  interest  in  satirical  journalism 
and  have  made  more  than  one  attempt  to  possess  an  in 
terest  in  such  a  paper  myself.  Puck,  in  the  days  of  its 
greatness,  was  a  power  in  the  land  such  as  does  not  exist 
to-day,  although  the  nation  stands  sadly  in  need  of  one. 
It  shot  folly  as  it  flew,  punctured  shams,  and  dealt  with 
politics  and  other  matters  of  serious  import  fearlessly, 
sincerely,  and,  on  the  whole,  truthfully.  Keppler  took 
the  place  previously  filled  by  Thomas  Nast  as  the  lead- 

298 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  299 

ing  American  cartoonist  and  to  his  cartoons  the  mem 
bers  of  the  staff  gave  freely  of  their  brains.  One  of  the 
most  famous  cartoons  ever  printed  in  Puck  bore  the 
name  of  Bernard  Gillam,  then  a  member  of  the  staff, 
and  was  called  "The  Tattooed  Man."  So  effective  was 
it  that  the  National  Democratic  Committee  ordered 
many  thousand  copies  of  the  paper  for  distribution  as  it 
appeared  on  the  eve  of  the  Presidential  contest  between 
Grover  Cleveland  and  James  G.  Elaine. 

The  picture,  which  was  suggested  by  Carl  Hauser,  rep 
resented  various  statesmen  of  the  moment  as  freaks  in 
a  dime  museum,  and  when  the  rough  sketch  was  sub 
mitted  to  the  council  that  assembled  weekly  to  criticize 
and  discuss  the  cartoons,  the  tattooed  man  was  the  figure 
of  David  Davis,  set  far  into  the  background.  Schwartz- 
mann,  one  of  the  proprietors  of  Puck,  objected  to  the  use 
of  Davis  because  of  his  clean  record  and  then  some  one 
suggested  Elaine  and  some  one  else  remarked  that  he 
should  be  tattooed  with  the  lines  "Little  Rock"  and 
"Mulligan  Letters,"  two  political  war-cries  then  in  vogue. 
In  order  to  show  this  lettering  the  figure  of  the  tattooed 
man  was  brought  down  to  the  front  of  the  picture  and 
thus  became  the  most  striking  feature  of  the  cartoon. 
The  proprietors  of  Judge  straightway  engaged  Gillam  as 
their  chief  cartoonist  but  neglected  to  employ  the  mem 
bers  of  the  staff  who  had  furnished  the  idea  and  sug 
gestions. 

In  later  years,  Cleveland  stated  quite  frankly  that  this 
cartoon  and  the  Puck  editorials  had  done  more  to  elect 
him  than  any  other  influence  employed  in  the  campaign. 

My  next  experience  in  satirical  journalism  was  on 


300  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

Truth,  then  controlled  by  Blakely  Hall,  a  brilliant  news 
paper  man  who  was  also  a  good  promoter.  I  was  the 
managing  editor,  and  our  staff  included  George  B.  Luks, 
then  a  comic  artist  of  great  skill  and  even  greater 
promise;  Granville  Smith,  Archie  Gunn,  Roy  McArdell, 
a  genuine  humorist  of  the  sort  that  makes  you  laugh, 
and  Robert  W.  Chambers,  whom  we  employed  as  an 
illustrator.  Our  color  printing  was  done  by  the  Ameri 
can  Lithograph  Company  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that  our 
circulation  soon  reached  that  of  Puck,  but  the  success 
of  Truth  proved  its  ruin,  for  the  American  Lithograph 
Company  saw  that  they  were  assisting  in  the  making 
of  a  great  property  and  proceeded  to  acquire  it  by  pur 
chase,  giving  Hall  a  large  cheque  for  his  interest. 

Now  as  every  one  who  has  ever  had  anything  to  do 
with  color  printing  knows,  a  lithographer  seldom  knows 
anything  except  "register" — meaning  the  adjustment 
of  colors — and  the  game  of  pinochle,  and  the  Blakeley 
Hall  regime  was  succeeded  by  one  of  dark  ignorance. 
I  still  contributed  to  the  paper  and  the  experience  was 
a  valuable  one,  for  through  it  I  began  to  learn  why  even 
successful  business  men  usually  fail  when  they  under 
take  an  enterprise  like  a  theatre  or  a  magazine  that  should 
be  dominated  by  literary  or  artistic  influences. 

Later  experiences  in  my  life  more  than  confirmed  this 
impression. 

Elated  by  their  acquisition  on  reasonable  terms  of 
what  was  rapidly  growing  into  a  very  valuable  property 
— the  profits  of  Puck  were  at  this  time  enormous — the 
pinochle  players  laid  aside  their  decks  for  a  time  and  pro 
ceeded  to  business.  Their  first  editor  was  a  young  man, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  301 

not  devoid  of  ability,  who  loomed  large  in  their  eyes 
because  he  had  devised  a  system  for  keeping  the  office 
accounts,  so  far  as  they  related  to  the  dealings  with 
artists  and  writers,  every  item  of  which  he  entered  in  a 
set  of  books  and  in  ink  of  five  different  colors.  A  man 
who  could  do  that,  they  thought,  would  make  an  excel 
lent  editor.  His  successor  was  a  Hungarian  who  could 
not  write  the  English  language  but  was  known  to  them 
as  a  maker  of  choice  underwear  and  they  reasoned  that 
his  conduct  of  the  magazine  was  quite  likely  to  equal,  if 
not  to  excel,  the  skill  which  produced  their  favorite 
undershirts.  This  man's  artistic  ideals  were  not  exalted. 
He  kept  hidden  under  his  desk  a  bock  beer  sign  re 
presenting  a  goat  drinking  from  a  foaming  glass.  It 
was  printed  on  highly-glazed  cardboard  and  when  an 
artist  offered  a  drawing  in  color  this  art  editor  would 
examine  it  critically — by  which  I  mean  he  would  hold 
it  right  side  up — feel  of  it  with  his  thumb  and  say: 
"This  ain't  smooth  enough.  Bring  around  something  as 
smooth  as  this  and  I'll  talk  business  with  you."  And 
he  would  haul  the  bock  beer  sign  from  its  hiding-place. 
There  was  one  lithographer,  a  rare  hand  in  "melding 
queens,"  or  whatever  pinochlers  do,  who  was  always 
prowling  about  the  office,  looking  suspiciously  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  honest  book-keeper  and  listening  to  every 
thing  that  was  said,  and  it  was  he  who  drew  the  cheques 
for  the  payment  of  contributors.  I  had  written  a  series 
of  papers  which  I  afterward  collected  in  book  form  under 
the  title  of  "The  Literary  Shop,"  and  it  happened  one 
day  that  the  current  editor  advised  that  I  should  be  asked 
to  write  a  review  of  a  certain  new  book  and,  in  order  to 


302  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

prove  my  worth,  handed  his  chief  a  copy  of  my  own  work 
which  he  took  home  to  read. 

Afterward  the  editor  told  me  that  he  had  expressed 
surprise  at  the  nature  of  my  writing,  as  he  had  no  idea 
that  I  did  work  of  that  sort,  and  to  this  I  made  answer : 
"You  may  tell  him  that  he  himself  drew  the  cheque  that 
paid  for  each  and  every  one  of  those  chapters." 

It  seemed  to  me  at  the  time  strange  that  a  group  of 
successful  business  men  should  entrust  the  duties  of  a 
buyer  to  one  who  did  not  know  what  he  was  buying, 
and  scarcely  less  credible  was  their  appointment  as  art 
director  of  a  man  who  regarded  a  bock  beer  sign  as  the 
highest  expression  of  art. 

My  next  experience  came  about  in  this  fashion.  A 
young  man  of  a  vacant  expression  of  countenance  was 
introduced  to  me  as  one  having  need  of  my  services.  He 
explained  that  he  had  obtained  the  necessary  financial 
backing  from  a  source  so  high  that  he  did  not  care  to 
name  it,  for  a  satirical  weekly  which  he  desired  me  to 
edit,  admitting  frankly  that  I  knew  more  about  the  matter 
than  he  did.  With  joyful  enthusiasm  I  undertook  the 
work  and  I  can  assure  my  readers  that  it  was  a  very 
difficult  thing  to  obtain  good  comic  pictures  and  literary 
matter  for  a  new  venture.  However,  I  managed  to  get 
together  several  passably  good  efforts,  but  by  this  time 
the  vacant-faced  young  man  had  discovered  that  he  knew 
more  than  I  did,  so  he  substituted  for  some  of  the  things 
that  I  had  secured  examples  of  his  own  taste.  It  was 
about  this  time  also  that  I  began  to  realize  that  I  had 
been  very  foolish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  this  stuff  you're  buying,"  he 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

said  to  me  one  day.  "There's  a  fellow  named  Stevenson 
who  seems  to  be  all  the  go  just  now.  Can't  you  get 
something  from  him?" 

This  "fellow"  was  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  the  first 
flush  of  his  great  fame,  and,  indeed,  "all  the  go,"  for 
his  work  in  Scribner's  Magazine  was  attracting  wide 
spread  attention.  I  explained  as  tactfully  as  I  could, 
that  I  did  not  think  he  would  come  on  from  Edinburgh 
to  earn  ten  dollars  from  us. 

A  few  days  later  it  became  necessary  to  have  some 
matter  set  up  in  type  at  the  cost  of  about  twenty-five 
dollars,  and  I  was  directed  to  entrust  the  work  to  my 
employer's  brother-in-law  who  had  a  large  printing  office. 
When  I  made  known  the  nature  of  my  business  and  the 
name  of  my  backer  the  printer  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter,  turned  to  his  partner  and  said :  "What  do  you 
think?  My  brother-in-law,  Charlie,  wants  us  to  trust 
him  for  twenty-five  dollars."  Whereat  the  partner 
laughed  even  more  heartily. 

I  have  related  these  two  apparently  insignificant 
anecdotes  in  order  to  indicate  the  commercial  rating  in 
Bradstreet's,  and  the  literary  taste  of  the  young  man  who 
had  been  entrusted  by  men  of  large  affairs  with  the  task 
of  preparing  a  sample  number  of  a  satirical  publication. 
Well,  we  prepared  that  sample  number  and  a  worthless 
thing  it  was  too,  and  not  until  then  did  I  learn  that  our 
backers  were  members  of  the  Sugar  Trust.  Wisely 
enough  the  sample  was  rejected  and  I  failed  to  get  all 
the  money  that  was  due  me.  One  day,  while  brooding 
sadly  over  the  affair,  I  arose  and  said  unto  myself,  "I 
don't  believe  that  this  fellow  had  any  such  backing  as 


304  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

that.  I  will  go  and  find  out  for  myself/*  Thereupon, 
I  visited  the  office  of  the  Sugar  Trust,  and  was  received 
by  a  gentleman  whose  name  I  think  was  Elder,  and  who 
was  a  person  of  deaconish  aspect  with  close-cut  whiskers 
like  one  of  the  Smith  Brothers  on  the  cough  drop  pack 
ages — not  the  one  with  the  long  chin  beard,  but  the  other 
one. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  reply  to  my  inquiry,  "we  told  this 
young  man  to  prepare  a  sample  copy  of  a  humorous 
journal  with  a  view  to  permanent  publication,  but  the 
sample  he  submitted  was  not  satisfactory  and  we  have 
abandoned  the  scheme.  Of  course,  we  paid  him  for  his 
trouble  and  expense/' 

For  a  moment  I  stood  gazing  at  this  captain  of  indus 
try  in  silent  wonder.  Then  turning  on  my  heel  I  left  his 
presence  forever. 

My  next  essay  in  humorous  journalism  died  still-born. 
j&  friend  of  mine,  with  whom  I  had  often  discussed  the 
matter,  came  to  me  with  the  information  that  a  certain 
man  of  means  who  was  very  much  interested  in  muni 
cipal  and  other  reform,  might  be  induced  to  help  me  and 
to  him  I  went  at  once  with  a  card  of  introduction.  He 
listened  with  keen  interest  while  I  explained  my  scheme 
and  noted  down  the  probable  expenses  in  minute  detail. 
He  impressed  me  as  a  very  clear-headed  man.  Suddenly 
he  turned  to  me  and  said :  "But  it  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Ford, 
that  if  I  went  into  this  thing  on  the  terms  you  mention, 
and  it  proved  successful,  you  would  be  making  a  great 
deal  of  money."  To  which  I  made  answer  that  I  thought 
I  would  in  that  event  be  entitled  to  it.  From  that  moment 
he  seemed  to  lose  interest  in  the  matter  and  never  re- 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  305 

f erred  to  the  subject  again.  Some  years  later  I  found 
that  he  had  considered  the  proposition  more  seriously  than 
I  had  supposed,  for  a  friend  of  mine  told  me  that  soon 
after  our  interview  he  had  been  bidden  to  dine  with  him 
and  two  or  three  other  men,  and  discuss  the  feasibility 
of  starting  a  magazine  very  much  on  the  lines  that  I 
had  suggested  and  from  which  I  was  to  be  left  out.  I 
think  my  aversion  to  reformers  dates  from  my  acquaint 
ance  with  this  one. 

My  next  venture  was  with  a  weekly  called  Vanity, 
started  by  the  sons  of  Eugene  Kelly,  a  wealthy  Irish 
banker,  but  Nugent  Robinson  had  arrived  in  the  office 
ahead  of  me.  Robinson  was  an  agreeable,  smooth-talking 
Celt  and  the  younger  Kellys,  Eugene  and  Thomas,  were 
easy-going  fellows  who  cheerfully  provided  the  requisite 
funds.  I  was  appointed  manager,  Robinson  being  already 
installed  as  editor,  and  when  I  opened  the  cash  drawer  of 
the  office  safe  I  found  in  it  less  money  than  due  bills, 
signed  for  the  most  part  by  the  Kellys'  hangers-on. 

With  zeal  unabated  by  previous  mishaps  I  proposed  to 
illustrate  the  journal,  but  Robinson  held  up  his  hands  in 
horror  saying:  "Don't  say  the  word  to  the  Kelly  boys! 
I  told  them  illusthrations  would  kill  it.  Summer  is  com 
ing  on  and  we  want  peace  and  quiet.  We  can't  have  these 
artists  thracking  in  and  out  with  their  portfolios  and  dis- 
turbin'  our  rest." 

Vanity  was  a  purposeless,  inane  publication  which  cost 
its  projectors  about  twenty  thousand  dollars  and  finally 
perished,  but  not  until  I  had  been  removed  from  office 
by  the  subtle  craft,  as  I  suspected,  of  some  of  the  signers 
of  the  due  bills  in  the  safe. 


306  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

My  last  experience  in  satirical  journalism  was  as  editor 
and  manager  of  the  Porcupine,  the  backer  of  which  was 
Robert  B.  Van  Cortlandt.  At  my  advice  we  started  it 
as  a  monthly,  with  the  intention  of  subsequently  issuing 
it  once  a  week,  and  I  can  recommend  this  course  to  any 
one  contemplating  a  like  enterprise.  My  many  experi 
ences  had  taught  me  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  good 
literary  and  artistic  matter  for  a  new  and  uncertain 
venture,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  much  better  to  print 
one  fairly  good  number  a  month  instead  of  four  weak 
ones,  to  say  nothing  of  the  great  saving  in  expense.  I 
hope  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  speak  a  little  boastfully  of 
my  conduct  of  the  Porcupine.  We  started  with  every 
thing  against  us,  including  the  postal  laws,  the  gradual 
rise  in  the  cost  of  production  and  the  fact  that  our  coun 
try  entered  into  the  war  before  we  issued  our  second 
number. 

I  could  not  pay  high  prices,  but  I  had  at  my  elbow 
certain  old  friends  who  knew  how  to  write  and  were 
glad  to  help  me.  I  engaged  J.  Norman  Lynd,  of  the 
Herald,  as  cartoonist,  and  we  worked  together  in  making 
cartoons  that  attracted  no  small  attention  and  stamped 
him  as  one  of  the  most  promising  members  of  the  craft 
in  the  city.  Among  the  friends  for  whose  assistance  I 
am  grateful  were  Colonel  H.  G.  Prout,  Ernest  Harvier 
and  Anne  O'Hagan  Shinn.  Our  subscription  list  was 
small,  but  of  such  a  high  class,  that  when  I  showed  it 
to  the  leading  publishers  of  the  town,  I  was  able  to  get 
about  the  only  advertising  that  we  ever  obtained,  for 
that  source  of  supply  ceased  abruptly  with  the  beginning 
of  the  war. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  307 

I  may  mention  that  in  embarking  on  this  enterprise 
I  called  on  Mr.  Hart,  the  manager  of  the  American  News 
Company,  to  arrange  for  the  circulation  of  the  paper,  and 
found  him  very  pessimistic  as  to  results.  "I  hope,"  he 
said,  "that  you  have  at  the  very  least  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars  in  capital." 

"Mr.  Hart/'  I  replied,  "I  have  discussed  similar  ven 
tures  with  persons  for  the  last  thirty  years,  and  in  every 
case  the  individual  addressed  has  wagged  his  head 
ominously  and  said:  'I  am  afraid  this  will  cost  a  great 
deal  of  money!'  Not  once  have  I  known  any  one  to 
wag  his  head  and  say :  1  am  afraid  this  will  take  a  great 
deal  of  brains!'  And  yet  what  makes  a  publication — 
money  or  brains?" 

The  Porcupine  marched  steadily  on  for  eleven  months 
during  which  time  it  had  cost  Van  Cortlandt  fifteen 
thousand  dollars.  Then  we  met  and  discussed  the  whole 
matter  thoroughly,  the  result  being  that  although  he  had 
been  despondent  of  success  from  the  very  first  he  now 
admitted  that  we  were  on  the  right  track  and  authorized 
me  to  order  a  two  years'  supply  of  paper.  I  never  saw 
him  again.  Ten  days  later  he  died  by  his  own  hand, 
and  at  his  funeral  in  Mt.  Kisco  his  lawyer  told  me  that 
Van  Cortlandt  had  recently  consulted  him  in  regard  to 
some  changes  in  his  will,  saying  that  he  was  going  away 
on  a  long  journey  and  that  he  intended  to  set  aside  for 
me  all  the  Porcupine  stock  and  a  sufficient  amount  of 
money  to  put  it  on  its  feet.  Although  he  had  always 
been  careful  to  take  up  the  stock  certificates  whenever 
he  advanced  money,  neither  those  certificates  nor  the 
securities  were  ever  found.  The  eclipse  of  the  Porcupine 


308  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

was  the  first  of  a  series  of  disasters  to  myself  to  which 
I  have  referred  in  the  first  chapter  of  these  memoirs,  and 
which  need  not  be  enumerated  as  they  concern  only 
myself. 

These  disheartening  experiences  have  not  been  wholly 
lost  on  me,  for  I  have  distilled  from  them  a  knowledge 
of  those  scientific  pursuits  whose  goal  is  other  people's 
money,  and  I  am  certain  that  there  are  mines  of  wealth 
in  New  York  as  yet  untouched  by  the  pick  and  shovel 
of  art  and  letters.  I  have  even  taken  pains  to  supple 
ment  this  knowledge  by  watching  the  stream  of  money 
that  was  poured  into  that  stockholders'  dream,  the  New 
Theatre;  the  lesser  sum  that  carried  Harper's  Weekly 
down  the  years  of  its  obscure  senility  and  lodged  it  on 
the  bleak  shore  of  the  Independent;  and  even  the  smaller 
amount  that  enabled  the  now  forgotten  Theatre  of  Arts 
and  Letters  to  draw  its  first  and  its  last  breath.  This 
wealth  of  information  I  cheerfully  bestow  upon  my 
younger  contemporaries,  confessing  with  mortification 
that  its  proper  employment  requires  steadier  nerve  and 
bolder  heart  than  mine. 

I  would  say  to  him  who  wishes  to  obtain  financial 
backing  to  such  a  venture,  for  example,  as  a  magazine, 
first  devise  a  hopeless  scheme;  then  inspire  further  con 
fidence  in  your  ability  to  make  a  complete  mess  of  it  by 
revealing  your  own  unbroken  record  of  incompetency. 

The  bunco-steerer  of  an  elder  day  always  recognized 
a  possible  victim  in  the  stranger  who  walked  the  Bowery 
looking  at  the  tops  of  the  buildings.  Your  most  likely 
backer  is  one  who,  with  eyes  fixed  on  Olympian  heights, 
babbles  of  the  intellectual  drama,  of  the  little  understood 


IN  THE   LITERARY   SHOP  309 

literature  of  remotely  alien  peoples,  and,  in  the  case  of 
some  whose  sincerity  I  respect  and  whose  folly  I  deplore, 
of  philanthropy  and  the  civic  virtues. 

It  was  with  eyes  that  turned  upward  that  a  fat  man 
called  Lorillard  Spencer  once  came  down  from  Newport 
to  establish  in  New  York  a  magazine  of  high  art,  little 
knowing  the  capabilities  in  that  line  of  our  own  illustra 
tors,  one  of  whom  actually  sold  him  a  copy  of  Knauss' 
"Holy  Family"  for  an  original  picture.  Mr.  Spencer's 
regrettable  discovery  that  this  work  of  art  was  known 
to  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  metropolis  except 
himself,  spoiled  the  market  for  Cole's  "Voyage  of  Life," 
and  "The  Deathbed  of  Abraham  Lincoln,"  then  in  course 
of  hasty  preparation  for  unloading. 

Any  man  of  the  sort  I  have  indicated  is  your  meat. 
Bait  your  hook  with  a  circular  outlining  your  plan,  which 
must  be  for  elevating  or  improving  something  or  some 
body,  and  print  in  bold  type  your  carefully  selected  staff 
of  incompetents.  Do  not  fear  to  say  that  the  disintegra 
tion  of  the  last  of  the  Shaker  communities  in  Massachu 
setts  has  enabled  you  to  secure  the  services  of  Elder 
Pokebonnet  as  dramatic  critic;  that  fashion  and  society 
will  be  conducted  by  Susan  Rivet,  late  secretary  of  the 
Lady  Boilermakers'  Association  of  Jersey  City,  with  the 
light  satiric  touch  for  which  she  is  famous;  and  that 
modern  fiction  will  be  reviewed  by  President  Sombretomb 
of  the  Freshwater,  Indiana,  University. 

Having  secured  through  this  irresistible  appeal  to 
"hard-headed  business  men"  the  necessary  funds,  you 
must  devote  yourself  to  the  task  of  pleasing  them,  keep 
ing  constantly  in  mind  the  fact  that  they  will  examine 


310  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

your  publication  with  scrupulous  care.  That  is  to  say 
they  will  look  at  it,  feel  of  it,  smell  of  it,  heft  it,  count 
the  pages  and  listen  to  their  crisp  rattling — do  everything, 
in  short,  except  read  it  and  understand  its  contents. 

I  have  neither  the  space  nor,  I  confess,  the  requisite 
knowledge  for  a  thorough  consideration  of  the  learned 
profession  called  "stringing  them  along,"  in  its  many 
complicated  phases  and  its  marvelous  operation  on  the 
mind  contained  in  the  "hard  head."  It  embraces  such 
methods  as  the  resurrection  of  moss-grown  and  mouldy 
devices  like  poetry  contests  and  the  giving  of  prizes  to 
new  subscribers;  cheerful  alacrity  in  the  puffing  of  vir 
tuous  young  actresses ;  a  judicious  distribution  of  theatre 
tickets  and,  in  event  of  desperate  necessity,  an  introduc 
tion  behind  the  scenes  of  a  theatre. 

And  to  these  kindly  words  of  counsel  I  would  add, 
in  the  most  solemn  and  impressive  language  at  my  com 
mand,  that  the  manner  in  which  Teutonic  statecraft 
sought  to  stem  the  rising  tide  of  hatred  in  this  country 
through  the  medium  of  the  New  York  Daily  Mail  carries 
with  it  a  message  of  hope  to  the  dullest  tyro  in  strategic 
finance.  Read,  Oh  ye  of  faint  heart,  how  hands  so 
clumsy  that  they  had  already  brought  disaster  to  the 
plow-share  trade  extracted  from  those  marvels  of  effi 
ciency,  Germany's  leading  financiers  and  statesmen,  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  for  a  scheme  of  propaganda 
demanding  the  wisdom  of  the  ape  and  the  cunning  of  a 
Cavour!  Read  and  wonder  at  the  beneficence  of  a 
Creator  who  has  placed  such  men  on  earth! 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  happenings  of  the  second  decade  of  the  century 
are  so  fresh  in  the  public  memory  that  neither 
comment  nor  recital  should  have  place  in  these  memoirs 
of  by-gone  years.  'Twere  better,  therefore,  that  I  devote 
my  remaining  pages  to  considering  some  of  the  men 
and  women  I  have  known  and  some  of  the  scenes  I  have 
witnessed  since  I  first  came  upon  the  metropolitan  turf. 
The  science  of  publicity,  which  has  a  far  greater  influence 
on  public  opinion  than  the  layman  is  aware  of,  renders 
it  difficult  to  distinguish  between  those  famous  through 
their  own  achievement  and  the  much  larger  number  wrho 
have  bought  their  laurels  at  the  nearest  shop  in  which 
those  adornments  are  hawked.  Of  the  last-named 
class  many  have  partaken  so  freely  of  the  cup,  intoxicat 
ing  to  men  and  poisonous  to  women,  that  they  honestly 
believe  themselves  famous  and  declare  their  faith  in  a 
manner  so  convincing  as  to  deceive  the  biographer. 


Far  up  the  heights  of  Olympus  there  is  a  snow-line 
where  the  pleasant  verdure  of  praise  ceases  and  the 
traveler  encounters  the  cold  blasts  of  carping  criticism. 
Mary  Anderson  withered  before  those  blasts  many  years 
ago  and  our  stage  knew  her  no  more.  It  is  believed  that 
it  was  a  single  icy  blast  sweeping  down  from  Scotland 

311 


312  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

that  killed  the  sensitive  soul  of  the  poet  Keats.  I  re 
member  reading  a  letter  from  Edwin  Booth  in  which 
he  said,  referring  to  a  venomous  attack,  that  he  felt  he 
had  reached  a  point  in  his  career  at  which  he  must  expect 
no  more  fulsome  praise.  Curiously  enough  it  is  at  this 
snow-line  where  laudation  ends  that  posthumous  fame 
begins.  There  are  two  ways  by  which  a  truth-loving 
commentator  may  procure  for  himself  the  triumph  of 
being  scorned  by  the  cognoscenti  of  New  York.  One 
is  by  exposing  to  contumely  some  successful  fake,  the 
other  is  by  speaking  highly  of  a  traveler  who  has  passed 
the  snow-line  in  his  journey  up  the  Olympian  heights, 
and  is  not  yet  dead. 


A  woman  who  was  not  only  one  of  the  greatest 
players  of  her  time,  but  one  of  rare  intellectual  gifts  as 
well,  was  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt,  whom  I  never  knew 
very  well  but  who  made  a  deep  impression  on  me  when 
ever  I  happened  to  have  a  few  moments'  conversation 
with  her.  On  one  occasion  I  went  with  an  old  friend  of 
hers  to  call  on  her  at  her  hotel  and  found  her  so  wearied 
from  a  long  and  arduous  rehearsal,  that  we  decided  at 
once  to  shorten  our  call. 

"I  am  a  grandmother  for  the  second  time!"  she  ex 
claimed  as  we  entered,  holding  out  a  cablegram  contain 
ing  the  news  of  the  birth  of  a  child  to  her  son's  wife. 

"I  have  an  invitation  for  you,  Madame,"  said  my 
companion.  "Mr.  Conried  desires  to  give  a  performance 
in  your  special  honor  and  wishes  you  to  name  the  play 
you  would  like  to  see." 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  313 

Madame  Bernhardt  started  forward  with  real  en 
thusiasm,  saying,  'That  is  very  kind  of  Mr.  Conried. 
Please  tell  him  that  I  shall  be  delighted  to  accept  his 
invitation."  Then,  turning  to  me  she  added:  "One  can 
always  learn  so  much  from  a  good  German  company." 
And  I  was  glad  to  know  that  one  of  the  most  distin 
guished  actresses  in  the  world  could  set  an  example  of 
modesty  to  some  of  our  younger  and  inferior  stars  by 
being  anxious  to  learn  something  at  the  moment  when 
she  was  twice  a  grandmother. 

A  player  of  our  own  country  whom  I  knew  very 
slightly  and  wish  that  I  had  known  better  was  Edwin 
Booth,  who,  despite  his  great  reputation  was,  in  my 
opinion,  superior  to  it  in  character,  talent  and  modesty. 
So  far  as  I  can  learn,  he  never  revealed  the  clay  feet 
and  was  undoubtedly  a  hero  to  his  valet.  On  one  occa 
sion,  at  the  dinner  table  of  a  mutual  friend,  the  conversa 
tion  turned  on  the  reading  of  a  certain , passage  in  Ham 
let  and,  naturally  enough,  we  looked  to  Mr.  Booth  for 
his  opinion. 

"It's  a  curious  thing,"  he  said,  "but  unless  I'm  on 
the  stage  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  remember  the  reading 
of  lines  that  I  may  have  recited  a  thousand  times.  My 
recollection  is,  though,  that  the  passage  should  be  read  in 
this  fashion.  What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Ford?"  I  am 
glad  to  say  that  in  the  presence  of  such  an  authority  I  had 
no  opinion. 

Mr.  Booth's  generosity  to  members  of  his  own  calling 
was  proverbial,  but  he  was  consistently  reticent  regard 
ing  his  many  acts  of  charity.  Laurence  Hutton  told  me 
that  he  called  on  him  once  at  the  Players'  Club  and 


314  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

found  him  entertaining  a  very  old  actor  whom  he  had 
invited  to  come  on  from  Philadelphia  to  spend  the  day 
with  him.  As  his  guests  departed,  Hutton  remarked: 
"I  hear  that  the  old  gentleman  has  managed  to  pay  the 
mortgage  on  his  little  property  and  is  comfortable  for 
life."  "Yes,"  rejoined  Mr.  Booth,  "that  is  true.  Isn't 
it  pleasant  to  think  that  the  old  man  is  free  from  care?" 

Two  or  three  years  later  Hutton  related  the  incident 
to  Louis  Aldrich,  giving  Booth  as  his  authority.  "So 
Booth  told  you  that  the  mortgage  was  paid,  but  did  he 
tell  you  who  paid  it?  No?  Then  I'll  tell  you.  It  was 
paid  by  Booth  himself." 

Although  I  do  not  claim  to  be  an  authority  on  intellect, 
I  think  I  may  safely  say  that  John  Fiske — he  hated  to 
be  called  "Professor"  Fiske — was  the  most  intellectual 
man  I  have  ever  known  and  unquestionably  one  of  the 
greatest  Americans  of  his  generation.  Mr.  Spencer 
Clark  has  in  his  notable  biography  of  Mr.  Fiske  re 
created  him  from  the  circumstances  of  his  career  very 
much  as  a  naturalist  re-creates  a  pre-historic  animal  from 
a  few  scattered  bones.  The  Fiske  whom  this  author 
has  drawn  is  the  one  whom  I  came  to  know  very  well 
during  the  season  that  I  managed  his  lectures  in  New 
York.  Like  other  great  men,  Mr.  Fiske  was  ingenuously 
modest.  I  asked  him  once  if  he  had  enjoyed  his  visit 
to  England.  "Well,  brother  Ford,"  he  said,  "when  I 
first  arrived  there,  I  was  so  homesick  thinking  of  my 
wife  and  children  that  I  used  to  lie  awake  at  night  and 
cry  until  the  pillow  was  wet,  but  in  the  course  of  a  week 
some  of  those  who  had  read  my  books  and  knew  of  me 
began  to  call — Mr.  Darwin,  Mr.  Tyndall,  Mr.  Huxley — 


C   X 


*"* 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  315 

and  invited  me  to  dinner  and  before  I  knew  it  I  was 
having  a  most  delightful  time." 

He  mentioned  these  names  as  if  they  had  been  Brown, 
Jones  and  Robinson,  and  without  the  slightest  intention 
of  impressing  me.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  was 
the  only  American  living  on  whom  those  three  most  dis 
tinguished  of  men  would  have  called  during  the  first 
week  of  his  stay  in  London. 

I  well  remember  his  comment  on  Trumbull's  painting 
of  Washington  crossing  the  Delaware.  "A  good 
picture,  brother  Ford,  but  the  American  flag  was  not 
invented  then." 

If  Mr.  Fiske  were  vain  of  anything  it  was  of  his  ac 
complishments  as  a  vocalist,  concerning  which  I  will  say 
nothing  except  that  he  thought  he  could  sing.  He  was, 
however,  a  composer  of  no  small  merit,  I  am  told. 
Possessed  of  unusual  social  gifts  he  found  genuine  en 
joyment  in  many  different  classes  of  society  and  could 
actually  make  American  history  fascinating  across  the 
table.  He  had  a  strong  regard  for  Henry  Irving  and 
Miss  Terry  and  delighted  in  visiting  them  behind  the 
scenes. 

A  friendship  that  I  prized  more  than  any  that  I  have 
had  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy  and  which  extended  over 
a  period  of  fully  thirty  years,  was  that  of  Mr.  William 
Dean  Howells,  of  whose  goodness  of  heart,  fine  idealism 
and  generous  sympathy  with  young  men  of  letters,  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  say  too  much.  He  was,  indeed, 
up  to  the  time  of  his  death,  the  Dean  of  American  liter 
ature  and  some  of  his  earlier  books,  The  Hazard  of  New 
Fortunes,  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  and  A  Modern  In- 


316  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

stance,  deserve  to  live  like  those  of  Jane  Austen,  as 
faithful  pictures  of  the  times  that  they  portray. 

Mr.  Howells'  keen  sense  of  humor,  rare  social  quali 
ties  and  lively  interest  in  the  men  and  women  whom  he 
knew,  remained  with  him  to  the  last.  He  called  on  me 
not  many  months  before  his  death  and  I  marvelled  then 
at  the  manner  in  which  he  had  retained  those  qualities 
in  their  pristine  freshness  well  into  the  ninth  decade  of  his 
life.  I  doubt  if  any  one  who  really  knew  him  will  arise 
to  dispute  my  estimate  of  him. 

One  evening,  many  years  ago,  I  was  talking  politics 
with  Thomas  J.  Creamer,  an  old-fashioned  Tam 
many  politician  who  was  then  serving  the  state  in 
Albany.  "There's  a  young  man  who's  just  come  into 
the  Legislature  that  you  want  to  keep  an  eye  on,"  said 
Creamer.  "He's  on  the  opposite  side  from  me  but  that 
don't  affect  my  judgment  and  I  tell  you  the  country  is 
going  to  hear  from  him  one  of  these  days.  He's  on  the 
level  and  has  got  the  makings  of  a  good  politician  and 
that's  a  combination  you  don't  meet  with  every  day. 
Comes  from  a  big  New  York  family  but  he  don't  show 
it  in  his  manner.  You  want  to  keep  an  eye  on  young 
Theodore  Roosevelt." 

I  am  not  the  only  man  in  America  v/ho  has  kept  an 
eye  on  Theodore  Roosevelt  since  then  and  as  years  went 
on  I  came  to  know  him  quite  well.  The  first  time  I  met 
him  I  felt  that  I  was  talking  to  a  man,  and  that  impres 
sion  never  left  me  during  the  many  years  of  our  ac 
quaintance,  even  after  I  had  come  to  recognize  his  faults. 
So  much  has  been  said  and  written  of  Roosevelt  that 
his  character  need  not  be  discussed  here  and  I  shall 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  317 

say  nothing  of  him  except  that  he  had  a  magnificent 
laugh  that  came  from  far  below  his  collar-button — such 
a  laugh  as  proclaims  sincerity. 

Mrs.  Grover  Cleveland,  whom  I  knew  slightly  in 
Washington,  at  the  time  of  the  Authors'  Readings,  given 
in  aid  of  international  copyright,  impressed  me  as  one 
of  the  rare  specimens  of  her  sex  to  whom  the  cup  of 
publicity  was  not  a  poisonous  and  demoralizing  draught, 
no  matter  how  frequently  it  was  pressed  to  her  unseek- 
ing  lips.  For  all  I  could  see,  the  fact  that  she  was  more 
conspicuously  in  the  public  eye  than  any  woman  in  her 
position  had  ever  been  had  absolutely  no  effect  on  her. 

At  the  time  when  I  was  engaged  in  writing  a  boys' 
book  about  fire-fighting,  The  Third  Alarm,  I  came  to 
know  Chief  John  J.  Bresnan  very  well,  indeed.  As  a 
typical  modern  fireman,  Bresnan  well  deserves  mention 
in  my  chronicles  of  New  York.  Of  Irish  parentage  and 
reared  in  the  old  Fourth  Ward,  he  began  to  run  after 
the  fire  engines  as  soon  as  he  could  toddle  and  at  the 
age  of  seven  constructed  a  toy  machine  which  he  used 
to  drag  after  the  engines  as  soon  as  the  alarm  was  given. 
He  attached  himself  to  the  volunteer  service  as  soon  as 
he  was  old  enough  and  remained  with  it  until  its  dis- 
bandment,  when  he  entered  the  paid  department.  With 
the  exception  of  a  brief  term  of  service  in  the  army 
during  the  Civil  War,  Bresnan  never  did  anything  to 
the  end  of  his  days  but  fight  fires  and  devise  new  schemes 
for  obtaining  better  efficiency.  He  was  a  man  of  such 
limited  education  that  I  doubt  if  he  could  pass  some  of 
the  present  day  civil  service  examinations,  for  he  used 
to  say  "conflaggeration."  It  is  quite  true  that  he  could 


318  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

put  one  out  as  quickly  and  effectively  as  any  man  on  the 
force  but  he  could  never  learn  to  pronounce  the  word 
properly. 

Bresnan  was  still  a  young  man  when  the  disastrous 
Brooklyn  Theatre  fire  occurred  and  it  turned  his  atten 
tion  to  places  of  public  amusement.  Richard  Watson 
Gilder  once  said  of  him  that  he  understood  the  begin 
ning  and  progress  of  fires  as  a  botanist  understands  the 
growth  and  development  of  a  flower  from  its  seed  to  its 
full  fruition.  Bresnan  set  to  work  on  this  matter  and 
never  rested  until  he  had  secured  the  ordinance  com 
pelling  the  presence  of  a  fireman  on  the  stage  during 
every  performance  and  the  making  of  proper  vents  in 
the  roofs  of  buildings  designed  for  public  assembly. 
Thanks  to  his  efforts  New  York  has  never  had  since 
then  a  theatre  fire  while  the  audience  was  in  the  house. 
Several  theatres  have  burned  down  but  always  when  they 
were  empty. 

Not  only  a  typical  fireman,  but  also  a  typical  product 
of  the  old-fashioned  respectable  Irish  element  of  the 
lower  wards,  Bresnan  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the 
history  of  New  York  and  with  every  phase  of  its  life. 
He  used  to  spend  his  days-off  in  wandering  about  the 
city,  studying  the  public  buildings  with  a  view  to  future 
needs  and  even  ascertaining  the  exact  location  of  all 
sleeping  quarters.  The  knowledge  thus  gained  came  into 
play  when  he  was  summoned  on  one  occasion  to  a  fire 
that  had  broken  out  in  St.  Francis  Xavier's  College  in 
West  Fifteenth  Street.  Entering  the  place  at  the  head 
of  his  men  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  flames  that  had 
started  in  the  basement  were  evidently  filling  the  upper 


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IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  319 

rooms  with  smoke  and  he  demanded  of  the  priest  who 
met  him  where  the  staircase  was. 

"You  don't  want  the  staircase,"  rejoined  the  cleric; 
"the  fire's  downstairs!" 

"Git  to  hell  outer  dis!"  cried  the  fire  chief  as  he 
pushed  the  other  aside  and  made  a  rush  for  the  upper 
rooms,  arriving  just  in  time  to  drag  one  of  the  brothers 
to  safety. 

Beneath  the  fireman  s  uniform  lay  a  very  tender  heart. 
Whenever  the  alarm  came  from  the  neighborhood  in 
which  he  lived  with  his  orphaned  children,  he  started  at 
once  without  even  waiting  for  his  driver  and  invariably 
explained  his  haste  with  the  remark:  "Dey  ain't  got  no 
mudder,  yer  know." 

A  strong  love  of  the  theatre  was  ingrained  in  him  and 
developed  by  his  frequent  visits  to  playhouses,  both  in 
front  and  back  of  the  footlights.  One  of  his  favorite 
plays  was  Bronson  Howard's  Shcnandoah  and  there  was 
one  brief  scene  in  it  that  so  affected  him  that  although 
he  had  witnessed  it  many  times  from  behind  the  scenes, 
he  found  himself  unable  to  endure  its  pathos  unmoved 
and  would  go  out  during  its  progress,  excusing  himself 
by  the  remark:  "It  kinder  makes  me  fill  up." 

Bresnan  died  as  he  could  have  wished  to  die,  at  a 
great  fire  in  West  Twenty-third  Street,  with  the  hose 
nozzle  in  his  hand.  His  funeral,  in  the  church  that  he 
had  once  helped  to  save,  was  attended  by  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  assemblies  of  people  I  have  ever  seen. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

I  HAVE  but  scant  respect  for  what  is  termed  the 
"higher  criticism"  when  applied  to  the  stage.  I  hold 
that  it  is  impossible  for  the  cloistered  academic  mind, 
and  difficult  for  the  cultivated  one,  to  understand,  appre 
ciate  or  even  enjoy  the  theatre,  that  is  to  say  in  the  full 
sense  of  those  terms.  The  stage  is  the  sport  of  democracy, 
not  of  the  aristocracy  of  learning.  Its  appeal  is  not  to 
culture,  which  is  scarce,  but  to  the  elemental  feelings 
common  to  us  all — to  the  emotions,  risibilities,  sense  of 
justice  of  the  great  sympathetic  world,  the  world  that 
dearly  loves  a  lover. 

Callow  academic  thought  delights  in  "showing  off"  its 
familiarity  with  Russian  and  Scandinavian  dramatic 
literature  for  the  enlightenment  of  those  persons  who 
think  they  think.  Its  manner  of  so  doing  is  that  of  a 
precocious  child  harassing  its  elders  with  parlor  recita 
tions.  The  riper  scholastic  mind  loves  to  brood  over 
the  Shakespearean  drama,  and  undoubtedly  appreciates 
its  "three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well,"  as  one  of  our 
poets  has  put  it,  its  philosophy,  its  matchless  literary 
splendor — everything,  in  short,  save  the  quality,  often 
sneeringly  called  "stage  carpentering"  that  has  kept  it 
alive  so  many  years.  The  taste  for  Shakespeare  will 
never  perish  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  comes 
and  goes  like  the  April  rains  and  flourishes  best  in  dull 

320 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  321 

times  when  men  have  time  to  think.  The  most  successful 
presentation  in  English  of  ''Julius  Caesar"  of  my  time 
was  that  given  in  the  midst  of  a  period  of  stagnation 
and  in  the  theatre  in  which  Edwin  Booth  had  sunk  his 
entire  fortune  during  New  York's  "Flash  Age"  of  riotous 
money-spending.  But  even  in  its  off  years  this  form 
of  entertainment  can  always  command  an  audience  of 
humbler  folk.  That  astute  manager  and  able  actor,  the 
lamented  Harry  Donnelly,  told  me  that  during  his  tenancy 
of  the  low-priced  Murray  Hill  Theatre  Shakespeare  was 
his  most  popular  author  and  that  he  devoted  one-tenth 
of  his  season  to  his  dramas. 

But  the  production  of  these  classics  is  not  the  difficult 
feat  ascribed  to  it  by  the  most  mature  academic  thought. 
Every  scene  has  long  since  been  thoroughly  tried  out 
so  as  to  obtain  the  best  dramatic  results  and  every  role 
comes  down  to  us  from  the  ages  so  encrusted  with  the 
most  effective  "business"  that  the  ingenuity  of  genera 
tions  of  players  and  managers  could  devise,  that  no  actor 
of  even  modest  ability  can  go  wholly  astray. 

A  far  more  perilous  undertaking  is  the  production  of 
drama  of  the  moment  and  the  delineation  of  characters 
absolutely  new  to  the  footlights.  That  is  a  task  calculated 
to  try  the  souls  of  manager  and  player. 

The  scholastic  mind  is  a  firm  believer  in  what  it  terms 
the  "higher  intellectual  drama"  and  the  "intellectual  act 
ing"  in  which  it  seeks  expression.  Its  conception  of  the 
first-named  is  confined  to  literary  excellence  which  has 
very  little  to  do  with  drama;  and  as  for  the  other,  such 
a  thing  does  not  exist.  Acting  comes  by  instinct  and 
that  instinct  is  God-given,  just  as  a  perception  of  form 


322  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

and  color  is  bestowed  on  the  painter  and  a  sense  of 
harmony  on  the  musician.  A  great  actor  may  or  may 
not  be  intellectual,  but  that  quality  has  very  little  to  do 
with  his  acting.  Madame  Bernhardt  is  a  woman  of 
intellect  as  well  as  a  superb  artist,  while  on  the  other 
hand  that  incomparable  tragedian,  Salvini,  made  but  one 
comment  when  he  read  "Macbeth"  for  the  first  time,  and 
that  was  that  "Macbeth  himself  ought  to  have  the  sleep 
walking  scene."  Salvini  was  essentially  of  the  theatre. 

I  did  not  intend  these  memoirs  to  become  anything  in 
the  way  of  an  " Apologia  pro  vita  mea,"  but  I  feel  justi 
fied  in  saying  something  about  dramatic  criticism,  an  occu 
pation  that  has  yielded  me  part  of  my  livelihood.  Largely 
speaking,  Broadway  philosophy  knows  but  two  kinds  of 
criticism,  labelled  respectively  in  the  quaint  argot  of  that 
school  of  thought,  the  "knock"  and  the  "boost,"  from 
which  comes  that  epigram  of  balm  to  the  wounded,  "every 
knock  a  boost."  The  former  never  fails  to  awaken  bitter 
resentment;  the  latter  gives  the  critic  brief  respect  as 
one  who  "knows  what  he  is  writing  about."  Neverthe 
less  I  have  never  known  any  one  to  be  ruined  by  even 
the  most  malicious  attacks,  and  I  have  seen  scores  put 
under  the  sod  by  the  undeserved  or  bought  and  paid  for 
puffery  that  provokes  abnormal  self-esteem  and  effectively 
stops  all  artistic  growth. 

Far  greater  injustice  is  done  by  critics  so  ignorant  of 
the  theatre  that  they  cannot  distinguish  between  the  work 
of  the  dramatist  and  that  of  the  player,  and  if  I  have 
ever  been  unjust  it  was  through  just  such  ignorance,  or 
because  I  favored  some  actor  with  whom  I  was  on 
friendly  terms.  And  yet  it  is  impossible  to  know  the 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  323 

stage  by  merely  studying  it  across  the  footlights.  It  is 
only  through  constant  association  with  its  people  that 
one  arrives  at  a  real  comprehension  of  the  theatre.  And 
before  I  leave  the  confessional  I  will  rid  my  soul  of  a 
sin  that  has  lain  heavy  on  it  for  many  a  year.  I  once 
wrote  an  article  for  a  woman's  magazine  in  exuberant 
praise  of  a  play  by  Charles  Rann  Kennedy,  simply  be 
cause  I  needed  the  money. 

I  have  been  ridiculed  for  attaching  too  much  impor 
tance  to  the  art  of  listening  or  "feeding,"  as  it  is  termed 
on  the  variety  stage,  as  practiced  by  actors  playing  to 
gether,  and  I  should  explain  that  in  theatrical  parlance 
the  term  signifies  acquiring  knowledge  of  what  is  going 
on  not  only  through  the  ear,  but  by  the  other  senses  as 
well  and  revealing  to  the  audience  the  immediate  effect 
of  that  knowledge.  It  has  even  been  said  that  listening 
is  my  hobby,  which  is  quite  true,  and  I  may  add  that 
I  keep  it  saddled  and  bridled  in  my  mental  stable  ready 
for  use ;  nor  should  I  care  to  see  any  one  else  ride  it. 

Everybody  knows  the  value  of  a  good  listener  at  the 
social  board  and  how  an  inattentive  one  can  spoil  the  best 
told  tale.  In  the  hands  of  an  accomplished  player  listen 
ing  is  raised  to  the  dignity  of  a  fine  art  capable  of  inten 
sifying,  and  even  creating  the  dramatic  interest  of  a 
scene;  therefore,  let  us  consider  what  certain  successful 
players  have  had  to  say  on  the  subject :  Two  women  of 
great  technical  skill — May  Irwin  and  Marie  Tempest — 
have  assured  me  in  precisely  the  same  words  that  "listen 
ing  is  nine-tenths  of  acting."  When  Clara  Morris  tried 
to  give  Augustin  Daly  an  idea  of  the  powers  of  Henry 
Irving,  whom  she  had  seen  in  London  in  "The  Bells," 


324  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

she  brought  her  eulogy  to  a  climax  with  the  exclamation, 
"God,  how  he  listened !"  Consider  also  the  words  of  the 
great  and  wise  Duse :  "The  finest  moment  of  an  actress 
is,  not  when  she  is  speaking,  but  when  she  is  listening." 
Nor  should  we  forget  that  a  parrot  can  be  taught  to 
speak,  but  not  to  listen. 

I  will  quote  another  remark  of  equal  sagacity,  although 
it  has  not  the  familiar  ring  of  culture,  which  came  to  me 
once  from  the  lips  of  illiterate  but  genuine  authority, 
and  I  confess  that  in  my  ignorance  I  smiled  contemptu 
ously  when  I  heard  it.  As  I  was  leaving  the  play-house 
at  the  close  of  the  professional  matinee  given  by  Madame 
Bernhardt  during  her  first  New  York  engagement  I  heard 
a  song  and  dance  man  say:  "Gee!  but  she's  a  great 
feeder !"  Scholastic  thought  had  previously  busied  itself 
with  everything  that  was  visible  and  obvious  in  Bern- 
hardt's  art,  but  it  remained  for  this  man,  bred  on  the 
variety  stage  where  "feeding"  or  listening  is  reckoned 
at  its  true  value,  to  get  at  the  very  heart  of  it. 

There  is  one  historic  scene  constructed  by  that  peerless 
master  of  what  the  unlearned  sneeringly  term  "mere  stage 
carpentering,"  which  shows  the  relative  values  of  listening 
and  the  sounds  that  provoke  it.  In  the  scene  of  the  knock 
ing  at  the  gate  in  "Macbeth"  the  knocking  can  be  done 
by  call-boy  or  property  man  as  effectively  as  by  a  Forrest 
or  a  Salvini,  but  the  sound  would  be  meaningless  were 
not  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth  on  the  scene,  listening, 
not  only  with  their  ears,  but  with  guilty  consciences  as 
well,  and  by  the  terror  written  on  their  faces  translating 
the  ominous  message  so  as  to  make  it  intelligible  to  even 
the  dullest  comprehension.  It  would  be  hard  to  name  a 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  325 

greater  moment  for  either  player.  The  dramatic  interest 
thus  skilfully  aroused  ceases  when  the  two  leave  the  stage 
and  are  succeeded  by  a  sleepy  porter,  in  whose  ears  the 
sound  has  no  significance  and  who  therefore  merely  hears 
instead  of  listening. 

It  seems  to  me  eminently  fitting  that  I  should  acknowl 
edge  here  my  indebtedness  to  that  fine  artist,  Miss  Marie 
Tempest,  who  first  made  clear  to  me  the  wide  difference 
betwen  hearing  and  listening. 

Looking  back  on  my  more  than  a  half  century  of 
theatre-going,  I  come  upon  many  bits  of  acting  that  are 
still  vividly  graven  in  my  memory  and  nearly  every  one 
of  these  was  dominated  by  listening. 

It  must  be  nearly  thirty-five  years  ago  that  I  first  saw 
Salvini  as  Othello  and  what  impressed  me  more  than 
anything  else  in  that  memorable  performance  was  the 
scene  in  which  lago  implanted  in  the  Moor  suspicions  of 
Desdemona's  faithlessness.  This  has  always  been  con 
sidered  lago's  scene  but  in  this  case  he  might  have  been 
a  phonograph,  so  completely  did  Salvini  dominate  the 
stage.  And  yet  all  that  Othello  did  was  to  listen  while 
the  other  talked.  But,  "God,  how  he  listened !"  As  the 
treacherous  friend  talked  the  other  circled  about  him  as 
a  panther  might  move  about  its  cage,  walking  with  cat 
like  step  and  showing  in  his  face  the  growth  of  rage 
and  jealousy  in  his  heart.  It  was  his  listening  that  held 
his  audience  in  such  a  grasp  that  if  any  thought  was 
bestowed  on  lago  it  was  to  marvel  at  his  temerity  in 
rousing  such  terrible  passions.  And  when  the  great  actor 
turned  suddenly  upon  the  accuser — I  think  he  threw  him 


326  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

to  the  ground — and  poured  out  on  him  a  torrent  of 
Italian  invective,  the  audience  literally  shuddered. 

A  friend  to  whom  I  described  this  scene  not  long  ago 
was  good  enough  to  compliment  me  on  my  memory,  but 
in  my  opinion  the  credit  is  due  not  to  my  memory  but 
to  the  superb  actor  who  left  on  it  an  enduring  record 
of  his  art. 

Another  scene  that  I  recall  almost  as  vividly  was  that 
played  by  Ludwig  Barnay  as  Mark  Antony  in  his  address 
to  the  Roman  citizens.  The  theatrical  profession  has  al 
ways  regarded  this  scene  as  one  that  "plays  itself"  as 
their  idiom  has  it,  but  in  this  case  it  was  played  as  it 
should  be,  not  only  by  Antony,  but  by  every  member 
of  the  mob  who  heard  him.  There  were  at  this  time 
so  many  players  in  the  Thalia  Theatre  company  that  it 
was  easy  to  recruit  the  mob  from  those  for  the  moment 
unemployed,  among  whom  were  many  of  skill  and  ex 
perience.  There  were  but  few  of  these  on  the  stage  when 
Antony  ascended  the  rostrum  but  they  assembled  rapidly 
as  a  mob  does  assemble,  many  of  them  being  in  character. 
A  baker  would  pause  for  a  moment  to  listen  and  then 
set  down  his  basket  and  remain.  A  beggar  would  ap 
proach  to  solicit  alms,  then  let  fall  his  outstretched  palm 
and  become  absorbed  in  the  speaker's  words.  So  the  mob 
gathered  till  the  great  stage  was  rilled. 

There  was  an  artifice  in  the  assembling  of  the  crowd 
that  was  not  apparent  to  the  spectator,  for  Barnay  and 
several  others  had  played  in  the  company  of  the  Duke 
of  Saxe-Meiningen — in  my  opinion  the  greatest  Shake 
spearean  producer  of  his  time — and  his  methods  were 
followed  here.  The  players  were  divided  into  groups 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  327 

of  three,  one  of  whom  was  a  superior  actor  who  directed 
the  work  of  his  two  subordinates,  while  Conried  in  the 
garb  of  a  common  Roman  citizen,  circulated  among  the 
crowd  and  kept  an  eye  on  everything. 

Although  I  have  never  seen  the  fact  mentioned  by  any 
of  the  commentators,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
Shakespeare  was  keenly  alive  to  the  value  of  listening, 
for  it  enters  into  every  one  of  his  notable  scenes.  William 
Hazlitt  once  said  that  to  realize  the  possibilities  of 
human  genius  one  should  read  Shakespeare  and  that  to 
comprehend  the  littleness  of  the  human  mind  the  writings 
of  his  commentators  should  be  pursued.  Even  De  Quin- 
cey,  in  his  essay  on  "The  Knocking  at  the  Gate"  in 
"Macbeth"  goes  no  deeper  than  the  effect  on  the  audience 
of  a  mysterious  sound. 

But  I  did  not  intend  to  range  myself  among  the  com 
mentators  and  for  aught  I  know  everything  that  I  have 
said  has  been  said  by  men  wiser  than  myself  many  times 
before.  I  only  wished  to  record  my  own  impressions  of 
the  playing  of  this  great  scene  on  the  Thalia  stage  and 
to  explain  the  opportunities  that  it  offers  to  actors  who 
know  their  business. 

In  the  Forum  scene  we  find  this  art  in  its  highest 
development  and  in  the  form  of  what  I  might  call  "cross- 
listening,"  for  as  the  mob  listens  to  Antony's  words,  so 
does  he  listen  to  all  that  is  said  and  by  keenly  watching 
their  faces  learn  the  effect  of  his  words.  In  Barnay's 
hands  the  scene  marched  on  with  ever-increasing  dramatic 
interest  until  the  mob,  at  first  inclined  to  think  that 
"t'were  better  that  he  speak  no  ill  of  Brutus  here,"  was 
roused  to  vengeance.  I  shall  never  forget  the  manner  in 


328  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

which  he  paused  for  a  moment,  scanned  the  faces  of  his 
auditors  with  a  quick,  searching  look  that  told  him  that 
his  great  moment  had  come,  and  then  suddenly  tearing 
the  cloth  from  the  bier  cried  out:  "Kind  friends,  what, 
weep  you  when  you  but  behold  our  Caesar's  vesture 
wounded?  Look  you  here!  Here  is  himself,  marred,  as 
you  see,  by  traitors !"  And  at  the  close  of  the  scene  when 
the  mob,  inflamed  by  his  words,  went  streaming  up  the 
stage,  on  vengeance  bent,  one  could  easily  believe  that 
mischief  was  indeed  afoot. 

Another  great  performance  that  I  have  witnessed  was 
that  of  Edwin  Booth  in  Hamlet,  and  the  scene  that  im 
pressed  me  the  most  was  his  reading  of  the  Soliloquy. 
I  have  seen  actors  of  limited  ability,  and  but  scant  com 
prehension  of  Shakepeare's  meaning,  address  these  lines 
to  the  audience,  or  else,  so  read  them,  as  to  convey  the 
impression  that  they  were  talking  to  themselves.  But  Mr. 
Booth  knew  well  that  as  he  was  alone  on  the  stage  he 
must  listen  to  himself,  and  he  did  listen,  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  reflect  on  his  mobile  face  the  meaning  of  his  words. 
He  told  me  once  that  while  playing  in  the  Sandwich 
Islands  his  Hamlet  always  attracted  scores  of  the  most 
intelligent  of  the  natives  and  that  these,  although  they 
did  not  understand  a  word  of  English,  gave  him  the  best 
audiences  he  had  ever  had  for  his  Soliloquy.  "They 
seemed  to  understand  it  all,"  he  added.  He  told  me  also, 
on  this  occasion,  that  although  his  tour  in  the  Sandwich 
Islands  was  eminently  successful,  he  experienced  great 
difficulty  in  getting  his  bills  posted  as  the  natives  to 
whom  the  work  was  entrusted  used  to  throw  away  the 
paper  and  eat  the  paste.  "My  actors/'  he  continued, 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  329 

"were  such  gentlemen  that  I  could  not  ask  them  to  do 
it,  so  I  had  to  put  them  up  myself  and  many  a  time,  after 
playing  Hamlet  or  Romeo  I  have  gone  out  in  the  moon 
light  and  stuck  up  those  bills  with  my  own  hand." 

Mr.  Booth,  as  well  as  myself,  had  been  deeply  im 
pressed  by  the  work  of  the  Meininger  Company,  whom 
he  saw  in  London.  "In  fact,"  he  said  to  me,  "I  was  so 
much  absorbed  by  and  interested  in  what  was  done  by 
that  great  listening  mob  that  I  did  not  pay  much  attention 
to  anything  else." 

I  hope  I  am  not  conveying  the  impression  that  I  knew 
this  great  actor  intimately  for  I  never  met  him  more 
than  two  or  three  times,  but  I  still  remember  nearly 
everything  that  he  said  on  those  occasions,  and  I  sincerely 
wish  that  it  had  been  my  good  fortune  to  know  him 
better. 

A  more  recent  actor  whose  work  has  given  me  infinite 
pleasure  is  Mr.  George  Arliss,  unforgettable  both  as  Dis 
raeli  and  as  the  War  Minister  in  The  Darling  of  the 
Gods.  The  latter  personation  I  have  always  regarded  as 
the  most  effective  in  his  repertoire,  just  as  I  considered 
Mr.  Booth's  Bertucchio  in  The  Fool's  Revenge,  the  most 
effective  in  his,  though  not  perhaps  so  scholarly  as  his 
Hamlet.  Mr.  Arliss  does  not  agree  with  me  in  this 
estimate  of  his  work,  but  a  true  artist's  opinion  of  what 
he  does  himself  is  not  always  impeccable.  It  was  the 
role  that  I  have  named  that  gave  him  his  first  great 
vogue  in  this  country,  although  he  had  previously  won 
the  commendation  of  the  discerning  while  in  the  com 
pany  of  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell.  His  engagement  for 
the  part  came  about  in  this  manner,  I  am  told.  Belasco 


330  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

fully  realized  the  vital  importance  of  the  part  and  was 
looking  about  him  for  some  one  to  play  it  when  chance 
led  him  to  the  theatre  in  which  Arliss  was  playing  in 
Mrs.  Campbell's  support,  light  modern  comedy.  Accord 
ing  to  my  informant — theatrical  legendry  need  not  be 
scrutinized  too  closely — Belasco  watched  him  during  one 
scene  and  then  proceeded  to  engage  him  for  this  tragic 
role,  knowing  well  that  he  could  play  it. 

Mr.  Arliss'  work  in  the  parts  that  I  have  named  and 
in  his  others  as  well  is  too  familiar  to  the  present  genera 
tion  to  bear  recital  here,  so  I  need  only  add  that  his 
Disraeli,  with  which  his  name  is  thoroughly  identified, 
was  a  well-studied  and  altogether  delightful  piece  of  act 
ing  and  that  his  resemblance  to  the  great  statesman  was 
so  striking  that  his  first  appearance  on  the  scene  had 
an  almost  sensational  effect.  Another  performance  of 
his  that  was  marked  by  a  degree  of  personal  distinction 
rare  enough  on  our  stage  was  his  Marquis  of  Steyne  in 
Mrs.  Fiske's  Becky  Sharp. 

When  Lord  Bryce,  who  had  known  Disraeli  well,  saw 
Mr.  Arliss  in  that  role  he  was  deeply  impressed  by  the 
actor's  likeness  to  the  great  prime  minister  which,  by 
the  way,  was  largely  due  to  a  close  study  of  the  Tenniel 
cartoons,  a  set  of  which  hung  on  the  walls  of  his  dressing- 
room.  Lord  Bryce  considered  the  resemblance  perfect 
save  in  one  particular.  Disraeli's  face  was  always  im 
mobile,  he  said,  and  no  emotion,  no  heat  of  controversy 
ever  brought  to  it  the  slightest  change  of  expression.  Mr. 
Arliss,  on  the  contrary,  constantly  reflected  in  his  face 
that  which  was  going  on  about  him.  His  Lordship's 
criticism  is  worth  recording  but  not  following,  for  the 


MR.  GEORGE  ARLISS,  AS  Disraeli,  IN  THE  PLAY  OF  THAT  NAME 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  331 

expression  on  the  player's  mobile  face  was  the  result  of 
his  acute  listening  and  the  absolute  essential  of  his  art. 

Another  performance  that  I  remember  vividly  and 
which  was  also  based  on  listening  was  that  of  Miss 
Frances  Starr  in  The  Easiest  Way.  Her  part  was  very 
long  and  I  think  that  during  the  second  act  she  was  on 
the  stage  the  entire  time.  It  is  true  that  the  credit  for 
her  performance  is  not  due  entirely  to  her  own  work, 
for  she  had  the  three- fold  advantage  of  Mr.  Eugene 
Walter's  fine  drama,  Mr.  Belasco's  skilful  stage  manage 
ment  and  a  company  that  gave  her  admirable  support. 
Nevertheless  her  ability  as  a  listener  had  much  to  do 
with  compelling  the  interest  of  the  audience  and  bringing 
out  the  efforts  of  her  associates  to  such  a  degree  that 
every  part  in  the  play  made  a  distinct  impression.  In 
other  words,  Miss  Starr  was  not  above  feeding  her  fellow- 
players,  and  I  may  add  that  it  was  her  ability  to  listen 
displayed  in  a  piece  called  Gallops  that  first  attracted  Mr. 
Belasco's  attention  and  led  to  his  engaging  her  as  a  star. 
I  mention  this  latter  fact  for  the  benefit  of  those  debu 
tantes  who  think  it  more  important  to  talk  than  to  listen 
and  who  do  not  know  that  there  is  a  wide  difference  be 
tween  listening  and  merely  hearing. 

Mr.  William  H.  Thompson  is  an  actor  whom  I  have 
always  greatly  admired  and  one  who  has  had  a  very 
strong  personal  following  among  sophisticated  play-goers. 
Local  stage  legendry  ascribes  to  him  many  brilliant  char 
acter  bits,  many  of  which  I  have  seen  myself,  but  the 
part  that  stands  out  vividly  in  my  memory  was  the  Car 
dinal  in  The  Royal  Family.  It  was  an  exquisite  piece 
of  work,  dignified,  lovable  and  spiritual  and  conveying 


332  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

an  idea  of  what  a  Prince  of  the  Church  should  be.  The 
scene  that  I  best  remember  was  that  in  which,  while  ap 
parently  dozing  in  his  chair,  he  was  nevertheless  keenly 
listening. 

As  to  the  players  of  farce  and  comedy  my  memory 
is  rich  in  countless  hours  of  enjoyment.  Johnny  Wild 
made  me  laugh  more  than  any  actor  that  I  ever  saw. 
English  by  birth,  he  created  an  entirely  new  stage  char 
acter,  the  New  York  Negro,  who  is  altogether  different 
from  the  clog-dancing  plantation  darky  of  old-time  min 
strelsy.  Long  before  he  joined  Harrigan  and  Hart,  he 
and  his  partner,  Billy  Gray,  had  made  an  enviable  reputa 
tion  in  variety  and  both  men  became  valuable  additions 
to  the  new  company.  As  Captain  Sim  Primrose  of  the 
Skidmore  Guards,  as  a  colored  barber  and  as  "Lemons 
the  Bum,"  Wild  was  irresistibly  funny. 

There  are  many  elderly  theatre-goers  who  cherish 
among  their  most  treasured  memories  the  performance 
of  that  most  exquisite  comedy  actress,  Rosina  Vokes,  in 
A  Pantomime  Rehearsal,  and  I  will  warrant  that  the 
scene  they  recall  the  most  vividly  is  that  in  which  she 
tried  to  impart  some  faint  comprehension  of  the  art  of 
acting  to  a  dull-witted,  fashionable  amateur.  "God,  how 
she  listened!"  as  that  stupid  creature  read  the  lines  of 
the  popular  song,  "I  know  a  charming  fellow,  la  de 
da — "  which  she  pronounced  "lady  day!"  And  how  as 
she  listened  her  face  revealed  the  growing  conviction  that 
it  would  be  impossible  to  teach  her  anything!  She  sur 
veyed  her  pupil  despairingly  as  an  Alpine  climber  might 
survey  a  yawning  crevasse  while  realizing  the  impossi 
bility  of  crossing  it.  If  she  spoke  during  the  scene  I 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  333 

have  forgotten  her  words,  but  I  shall  never  forget  the 
way  in  which  she  proved  in  comedy  what  Duse  has  proved 
in  tragedy  that  the  actress's  greatest  moment  is  not  that 
in  which  she  talks,  but  that  in  which  she  listens. 

A  personation  of  recent  years  that  I  recall  with  peculiar 
delight  is  that  of  Mr.  John  W.  Cope  in  The  Concert. 
I  know  of  no  better  character  actor  on  our  stage  to-day 
than  he,  but  in  The  Concert  he  seemed  to  me  to  excel 
himself.  He  played  the  care-taker  of  the  Catskill  bunga 
low  and  never  before  have  I  seen  a  man  not  native  to 
the  green  sod  play  an  Irishman  as  he  did.  I  doubt  if 
Dion  Boucicault  could  have  done  it  any  better. 

Another  actress  who  is  an  extremely  good  listener 
and  who  learned  much  of  that  art  by  a  careful  study 
of  the  methods  of  Joe  Weber  is  Miss  Katherine  Grey, 
well  remembered  by  her  work  in  support  of  Richard 
Mansfield,  Charles  Coghlan  and  others.  Being  a  good 
listener,  it  is  needless  to  add  that  Miss  Grey  is  a  fine 
actress. 

An  interesting  example  of  what  it  means  to  be  lacking 
in  this  art  is  to  be  found  in  the  career  of  Miss  Cissy 
Loftus,  an  imitator  of  genius,  but  not  an  actress,  as  she 
has  never  learned  to  listen  on  the  stage.  The  daughter 
of  Marie  Loftus,  a  famous  British  music-hall  performer, 
Miss  Loftus  made  a  tremendous  success  in  London  when 
she  was  a  very  young  girl  and,  so  vivid  were  her  imita 
tions  of  other  artists  that  many  managers  and  play 
wrights  believed  she  could  be  made  a  successful  legitimate 
star.  Henry  Irving,  Augustin  Daly  and  Daniel  Frohman 
engaged  her,  but  in  no  case  did  she  make  good,  though 
in  her  imitations  she  was  without  a  peer. 


334  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

"I  saw  a  rotten  bad  play  last  night,"  said  a  dramatic 
writer  whom  I  chanced  to  meet  on  Broadway  one  evenr 
ing ;  and  the  world-weary  note  in  his  voice,  coupled  with 
the  fact  that  I  knew  him  to  be  an  ass,  sent  me  scurrying 
to  the  Garrick  Theatre.  I  arrived  at  the  close  of  the 
first  act  and  with  no  small  difficulty  edged  my  way  through 
the  crowd  assembled  to  see  the  "rotten  bad  play"  to  a 
coign  of  advantage  at  the  rail,  to  which  I  clung  until 
the  final  fall  of  the  curtain.  I  came  early  the  next  night 
and  saw  the  whole  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  from  •  begin 
ning  to  end  and  forgot  that  I  was  standing  up.  An 
acquaintance  of  mine,  a  police  detective  whose  ability 
may  be  measured  by  the  fact  that  he  owns  the  house  in 
which  he  lives,  remarked  disapprovingly  as  we  were  leav 
ing  the  theatre:  "That  man  is  not  a  bit  like  a  real 
detective,"  and  in  thus  speaking  he  uttered  a  profound 
truth  and  paid  a  high  compliment  to  Mr.  Gillette. 

At  the  risk  of  incurring  the  contempt  of  the  academic 
and  other  scholastic  schools  of  criticism  I  make  bold  to 
express  my  opinion  that  Sherlock  Holmes  is  a  remarkable 
example  of  the  playwright's  craft,  and  although  it  may 
be  said  that  in  adapting  the  work  of  Conan  Doyle  for 
the  American  stage,  Mr.  Gillette  at  the  same  time 
dramatized  his  own  mimetic  talents,  the  result  is  all  that 
concerns  the  play-goer. 

Another  thing  that  he  dramatized  with  the  skill  that 
characterizes  all  his  work  was  the  sense  of  fear  that  lies 
dormant  in  every  human  soul.  It  was  the  apprehension 
of  impending  peril  that  kept  me  clinging  to  that  brass 
rail,  oblivious  to  my  surroundings,  the  first  time  I  saw 
the  play,  while  the  whole  house  listened  in  the  absolute 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  335 

silence  that  pays  the  highest  tribute  to  theatric  art.  'And 
what  better  work  for  the  dramatist  than  the  creation  of 
an  illusion  so  gripping  that  it  takes  us  out  of  ourselvesr? 

A.  M.  Palmer  told  me  that  at  the  close  of  the  dress 
rehearsal  of  Jim  the  Penman,  written  almost  at  a  single 
sitting  by  Sir  Charles  Young,  he  was  asked  by  Louis 
Massen  of  the  cast  what  he  thought  of  the  play,  and  to 
this  query  made  answer:  "I  think  it's  the  worst  piece 
of  rot  I  ever  listened  to  in  my  life  and  I  believe  I'm 
on  the  eve  of  the  most  disastrous  failure  of  my  career." 
Even  the  most  expert  opinion  is  liable  to  go  wrong  after 
a  rehearsal  for  nobody  save  the  manager  himself  con 
sidered  that  play  "rot."  Agnes  Booth's  performance 
was  unforgettable.  "God,  how  she  listened !"  as  she  read, 
in  absolute  silence,  the  paper  that  revealed  the  true  char 
acter  of  her  husband!  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 
watch  the  course  of  the  knowledge  thus  gained  passing 
through  her  eyes  into  her  brain  and  communicating  itself 
to  the  audience  through  her  wonderfully  mobile  face.  No 
better  endorsement  of  Duse's  theory  on  the  subject  can 
be  imagined  than  the  manner  in  which  this  superb  Ameri 
can  actress  listened  with  all  her  faculties. 

A  play  that  achieved  immediate  and  deserved  popu 
larity  was  The  Thirteenth  Chair,  which  had  tragic  results 
not  generally  known. 

William  Harris,  who  had  acquired  the  rights,  was  a 
manager  who  may  be  said  to  have  known  his  business 
from  the  ground  up  for  he  began  his  career  as  a  black 
face  comedian  in  the  early  days  of  variety,  and  lived 
to  become  a  member  of  the  powerful  Theatrical  Syn 
dicate.  None  of  his  associates  had  any  faith  in  the  play 


336  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

and  refused  to  share  the  risk  of  it,  so  he  determined 
to  produce  it  himself,  even  at  the  risk  of  alienating  his 
associates.  In  company  with  his  wife  he  attended  the 
first  performance  and  so  great  was  the  interest  aroused 
by  the  drama  that  gamblers  were  literally  making  book 
in  the  lobby  as  to  its  outcome.  The  success  of  the  drama 
that  night,  more  than  confirmed  by  the  criticisms  the  next 
morning,  proved  too  much  for  Mr.  Harris,  not  then  in 
the  best  of  health,  and  he  died  on  the  last  day  of  the 
week  a  victim  to  the  resultant  excitement.  Among  his 
former  associates  was  Joseph  Brooks,  with  whom  he  had 
had  a  quarrel,  and  it  was  immediately  after  learning  of 
the  death  of  his  old  friend  that  Brooks  went  home  and 
committed  suicide. 

There  is  one  play  that  I  should  like  to  see  properly 
presented,  not  in  order  to  stir  up  sectional  feeling,  but 
because  its  tremendous  dramatic  theme  offers  to  both 
adapter  and  actor  opportunities  that  I  have  never  seen 
realized.  The  theme,  selling  a  man's  body  without  selling 
his  soul,  tersely  expressed  in  a  line  that  comes  down  to 
us  staggering  under  the  weight  of  three-quarters  of  a 
century  of  ridicule — "My  body  belongs  to  you,  but  my 
soul  belongs  to  Him  Who  reigneth  on  high" — is  unsur 
passed  in  our  dramatic  literature.  So  far  as  my  knowl 
edge  goes,  and  I  have  seen  the  play  many  times,  no 
adapter  has  ever  presented  the  scene  of  the  slave-auction 
with  true  regard  to  its  dramatic  possibilities.  I  can  im 
agine  what  such  a  player  as  Salvini  would  have  done  in 
that  scene  as  he  turned  his  anxious  face  from  the  kindly 
would-be  purchaser  on  one  side  to  the  brutal  Legree  on 
the  other,  listening  the  while,  to  the  alternate  bids,  all 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  337 

his  future  happiness  staked  on  the  result.  The  best  Uncle 
Tom  I  ever  saw  was  Wilton  Lackaye  in  an  inferior 
dramatization,  and  it  was  in  the  same  performance  that 
little  Georgie  Olp,  who  had  served  her  stage  apprentice 
ship  as  a  music  cue  to  Andrew  Mack,  gave  an  unforget 
table  performance  of  "Eva."  I  met  her  one  afternoon 
during  the  run  of  the  piece  and,  while  complimenting  her 
on  her  work  advised  her  to  adopt  a  more  natural  method 
in  other  parts. 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  understand  that/'  said  this  child 
of  eleven.  "Little  Eva  is  a  preposterous  infant  and  if  I 
were  to  play  an  unnatural  part  in  a  natural  manner  the 
people  would  laugh  at  me." 


* 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  a  previous  chapter  I  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Frank  A. 
Munsey  as  a  pioneer  in  the  business  of  publishing 
cheap  magazines.  It  was  his  success  in  that  line  of 
endeavor  that  led  him  into  the  far  more  speculative 
field  of  stock  gambling,  in  which  I  am  told  he  amassed 
a  large  fortune.  It  was  after  his  Wall  Street  ventures, 
and  possibly  because  of  them,  that  he  began  to  gratify 
his  long-cherished  ambition  to  become  the  owner  of 
many  daily  newspapers  and  I  recall  one  of  his  public 
utterances  in  which  he  announced  his  intention  of  own 
ing  a  thousand  papers  in  as  many  cities. 

Coincident  with  his  appearance  in  the  journalistic  field 
was  his  entrance  into  the  not  dissimilar  one  of  groceries, 
into  which  he  was  led  in  the  hope  of  retrieving  the  mis 
take  he  had  made  in  moving  his  printing  plant  to  New 
London,  Connecticut.  On  the  main  street  of  that 
beautiful  New  England  town  he  erected  a  huge  build 
ing  of  a  style  of  architecture  that  had  its  genesis  in  the 
soap  box.  But  it  was  not  until  he  had  installed  his 
presses  that  he  learned  that  he  could  not  issue  his  maga 
zine  through  the  New  London  Post  Office  with  New 
York  printed  on  it  as  its  place  of  publication.  There 
upon  he  tore  out  his  presses  and  brought  them  back  to 
New  York  at  an  immense  cost.  Then,  in  order  to  utilize 
his  building,  he  turned  it  into  a  hotel  with  the  office  and 

338 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  339 

dining-room  on  the  upper  floor.  This  left  the  ground 
floor  vacant  so  he  started  a  department  store  there  in 
order  to  utilize  the  space,  and  thus  entered  into  com 
petition  with  all  the  retail  merchants  in  the  town.  The 
merchants  then  assembled  in  conclave  and  decided  that 
they  would  refuse  to  buy  goods  from  any  drummer  who 
patronized  Munsey's  Hotel,  and  as  the  traveling  men 
were  beginning  to  look  favorably  on  New  London  as  a 
good  place  in  which  to  "Sunday  over,"  the  blow  was  a 
severe  one.  But  with  characteristic  persistence,  Mr. 
Munsey  proceeded  to  improve  his  hotel,  remodel  some 
of  the  rooms  into  apartments  and  in  time  the  establish 
ment  became  an  acknowledged  success. 

From  the  shop  on  the  ground  floor  sprang  the  chain 
of  Mohegan  Stores  which  now  dot  the  country  and 
in  which  groceries  of  every  description  are  sold  on  what 
is  termed  the  "cash  and  carry"  plan — a  business  said  to 
yield  fabulous  profits. 

It  was  while  building  up  his  grocery  trade  that  Mr. 
Munsey  made  his  earliest  newspaper  ventures,  one  of  the 
first  of  which  was  the  purchase  of  the  Daily  News  in 
New  York,  a  paper  so  firmly  entrenched  in  the  hearts 
of  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  readers  that  not  even  the 
Journal  had  been  able  to  make  any  appreciable  inroads 
on  its  circulation.  That  circulation  had  been  among 
the  laboring  classes,  for  the  News  had  always  printed 
what  was  calculated  to  interest  them.  It  dealt  largely 
with  the  gossip  of  ward  politicians  and  the  conditions 
of  the  labor  market  and  gave  timely  hints  for  the  best 
way  of  qualifying  for  the  municipal  jobs.  Men  who 
were  always  looking  for  work  "on  a  broom"  or  "the  big 


340  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

pipes"  never  missed  their  daily  copy  of  the  News. 
There  was  also  printed  each  day  a  short  story  to  be  read 
by  the  old  woman  after  she  had  cleared  away  the  supper- 
table.  In  short,  we  have  had  in  New  York  very  few 
newspapers  more  closely  adapted  to  their  readers'  needs. 

The  new  owner  proceeded  to  eliminate  several  of  the 
best  features  of  this  publication  and  to  introduce  some 
ideas  of  his  own.  The  short  story  was  replaced  by 
essays,  revamped  from  old  numbers  of  the  magazine  on, 
"How  to  Get  a  Young  Girl  Into  Society"  or  "American 
Girls  Who  Wear  Coronets." 

"Is  this  the  ould  Daily  News?"  exclaimed  a  puzzled 
Celt,  "or  is  it  a  circular  from  the  A.  P.  A.  ?" 

Always  alert  in  his  methods,  Mr.  Munsey  made  quick 
work  of  the  demolition  of  the  property  and  it  was  cur 
rently  reported  at  the  time  that  he  spent  nearly  a  million 
on  it  and  finally  sold  it  for  twenty-five  dollars.  A  local 
paragrapher  summed  up  his  efforts  in  these  words:  "It 
had  always  been  supposed  that  nothing  could  kill  the 
Daily  News,  but  these  local  prophets  spoke  without  due 
appreciation  of  the  capabilities  of  Mr.  Frank  A. 
Munsey." 

Nothing,  if  not  venturesome,  the  new  power  in 
journalism  extended  his  activities  to  other  cities,  having 
in  view  his  thousand  newspapers  in  as  many  towns.  His 
heavy  hand  fell  upon  Boston,  Philadelphia  and  Wash 
ington  and  meanwhile  his  grocery  business  was  assum 
ing  large  proportions,  and  its  profits  became  such  as  to 
enable  him  to  carry  his  less  fortunate  investments.  He 
bought  the  Nezv  York  Press  and  afterward  the  Sun,  and 
as  the  latter  had  no  Associated  Press  franchise,  he  merged 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  341 

the  two  together  and  housed  them,  together  with  his 
magazines  and  groceries  in  the  Broadway  building  once 
occupied  by  A.  T.  Stewart  as  his  retail  store. 

Having  myself  but  a  poor  head  for  business  details,  I 
have  a  great  respect  for  any  man  who  can  conduct  under 
the  same  roof  the  many  and  varied  industries  in  which 
Mr.  Munsey's  active  mind  seeks  expression.  A  visit  to 
his  vast  emporium  will  well  repay  any  earnest  student 
of  commerce.  Here  the  great  presses  turn  out  the 
various  editions  of  the  daily  papers,  shaking  the  floors 
above  where  are  stored  the  goods  that  feed  both  body 
and  mind.  Here  we  may  find  figs  and  fiction,  rice  and 
romance;  poetry  on  one  shelf,  prunes  on  another,  all  in 
order,  ticketed  and  labeled. 

Mr.  Munsey's  last  purchase,  up  to  the  moment  of 
writing,  was  the  New  York  Herald,  which,  since  the 
death  of  Mr.  Bennett,  had  been  conducted  by  Com 
mander  J.  D.  J.  Kelley,  Frank  B.  Flaherty  and  the  late 
Josiah  K.  Ohl,  through  whose  efforts  and  those  of  a 
loyal  and  efficient  staff  the  cost  price  had  been  raised 
from  $2,500,000  to  $4,250,000.  In  consigning  the  fine 
old  journal  to  the  knacker's  yard  in  which  repose  the 
bones  of  so  many  of  his  previous  ventures  the  new 
proprietor  announced  that  it  "had  lost  much  of  its  old- 
time  vitality,"  but  it  seemed  to  some  of  us  that  some  life 
remained  in  the  old  corpse  to  the  very  last. 

At  the  time  of  his  purchase  of  the  Sun,  Life  printed 
a  cartoon  from  the  pen  of  J.  Norman  Lynd  of  the 
Herald,  representing  the  new  owner  as  the  Grave-Digger 
in  Hamlet,  in  the  act  of  burying  his  acquisition  in  a 
cemetery  filled  with  his  dead  and  gone  papers  and  maga- 


342  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

zines,  while  the  other  dailies,  garbed  in  mourning,  stood 
weeping  beside  the  open  grave.  Mr.  Munsey  never  for 
got  this  cartoon  and  scarcely  was  the  ink  dry  on  the 
bill  of  sale  when  he  discharged  Lynd  from  the  Herald 
staff  with  the  verbal  message:  "He'll  know  what  that's 
.for." 

The  news  that  the  Herald  had  been  found  guilty  of  so 
misusing  its  lost  vitality  as  to  add  nearly  two  million 
dollars  to  its  cost  price  carried  poignant  regret  into  the 
thousands  of  homes  in  which  it  had  been  for  years  a 
welcome  daily  visitor,  and  this  feeling  changed  to  resent 
ment  when  it  became  known  that  the  culprit  was  to  die 
an  ignominious  death. 

There  is  tragic  interest  in  the  finish  of  any  notable 
career,  and  what  career  more  notable  than  that  of  this 
newspaper,  born  in  a  cellar,  suckled  by  the  courage  of 
its  founder,  nursed  by  his  brains  and  those  of  his  son 
through  lusty  youth  to  a  manhood  of  unexampled  vigor 
and  power  and  then  sentenced  to  death  on  the  gallows ! 

The  condemned  one's  last  night  on  earth,  the  final 
going  to  press  of  the  sheet  that  had  been  for  years  a 
reliable  news-gatherer  and  an  influential  organ  of  public 
opinion,  was  an  unforgettable  occasion.  Many  old-time 
members  of  the  staff  assembled  to  see  the  pinioning  of 
the  still  powerful  arms  and  the  putting  on  of  the  black 
cap  and  to  listen  with  sad  hearts  to  the  sound  of  the 
falling  drop.  There  were  even  those  who  took  part  in 
the  mournful  ceremony  by  writing  a  few  lines  of  copy 
for  the  final  printing  and  then  "begged  a  hair  of  him" 
in  memory  by  procuring  an  early  copy  of  that  number  to 
bequeath  unto  their  issue. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  343 

During  the  late  hours  of  the  night  there  surged 
through  the  corridors,  the  city  and  editorial  rooms  and 
in  and  out  of  the  famous  old  council  chamber  a  throng 
of  reporters,  editors,  copy  readers,  compositors,  office 
boys  and  press  men,  drawn  together  by  a  common  sor 
row  and  seeking  cheer  through  brave  choruses  and 
braver  defiance  of  the  ancient  ukase  that  forbade 
the  bringing  of  alcoholic  stimulants  into  the  Herald 
building.  But  there  was  as  little  real  gaiety  as  at  any 
of  the  executions  that  so  many  of  these  men  had  wit 
nessed  in  the  past,  not  from  choice  but  that  they  might 
tell  how  "the  fatal  trap  was  sprung  and  the  murderer's 
soul  launched  into  eternity." 

A  like  gloom  pervaded  the  composing  room  on  the 
upper  floor  where  the  men  silently  made  ready  the  forms 
for  the  last  printing.  Not  a  few  of  these  had  seen  decades 
of  service  under  the  Herald  roof  and  gray  heads,  rever 
ently  bowed,  were  numerous  in  the  group  that  gathered 
to  see  the  last  of  the  forms  lowered  to  the  press-room 
bearing  a  memorial  wreath  in  testimony  of  genuine 
sorrow. 

Meanwhile  something  unlocked  for  had  taken  place 
on  the  floor  below.  Precisely  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 
a  uniformed  bugler  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
city  room,  and  all  work  ceased  as  the  clear  thrilling  notes 
of  "Taps"  rang  through  the  building. 

Following  the  ancient  custom  that  ordains  that  the 
executioner  shall  remain  invisible  during  the  perform 
ance  of  his  gruesome  task,  the  destroyer  of  the  Herald 
kept  out  of  sight  until  the  deed  was  done. 

Mingled  with  the  dust  of  the  Sun  and  Press,  the  paper 


344  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

was  printed  for  a  few  weeks  as  the  Sun-Herald.  Then, 
through  the  medium  of  his  ouija  board,  Mr.  Munsey 
summoned  the  shade  of  the  departed  back  to  earth  again 
and  bestowed  upon  it  the  name  by  which  it  had  been 
known  for  so  many  years.  But  in  the  eyes  of  its  former 
readers  it  was  but  a  phantom  of  its  old  self.  Gone  were 
the  familiar  make-up,  the  Rogers  cartoons  and  the  daily 
poem.  What  the  Herald  may  become  by  the  time  these 
words  reach  the  printed  page  no  man,  not  even  the  artist 
who  in  Life  had  shown  himself  a  true  prophet,  can 
foretell. 

Recent  events  of  no  small  importance  to  the  nation 
indicate  the  power  that  lies  in  minorities  controlled  by 
the  professional  politicians  who  are  the  real  rulers  of 
our  country.  The  crafty  welding  together  of  the  Pro 
hibition  minorities  in  each  state  fastened  upon  us  an 
unwanted  Constitutional  Amendment.  Still  more  fla 
grant  examples  of  a  complete  and  impudent  disregard 
of  the  people's  wishes  were  shown  during  the  summer 
of  1920  when  two  national  conventions,  assembled  for 
the  ostensible  purpose  of  choosing  Presidential  candi 
dates  satisfactory  to  their  respective  parties,  nominated 
men  for  whom  there  was  no  public  demand  whatever. 
I  say  this  without  prejudice  to  the  newly-elected  Presi 
dent. 

The  proceedings  of  these  deliberative  bodies  reminded 
me  of  a  similar  unscrupulous  use  of  the  minority  power 
by  two  shrewd  politicians  which  passed  before  my  own 
eyes  in  the  campaign  of  1888,  when  I  was  doing  news 
paper  work  at  Coney  Island. 

John  Y.  McKane,  then  at  the  height  of  his  power,  had 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  345 

greater  gifts  of  political  leadership  than  any  man  I  have 
ever  known.  With  better  education,  larger  vision  and 
more  far-reaching  ambition  he  might  easily  have  become 
one  of  our  great  national  figures  and  gone  down  in  his 
tory  as  a  statesman  instead  of  a  convict.  Not  even  the 
most  powerful  of  New  York's  ward  politicians  equaled 
him  in  absolute  control  of  his  following.  In  previous 
years  McKane  had  thrown  his  voting  strength  on  the 
Democratic  side,  but  by  his  failure  to  secure  from  the 
Cleveland  administration  the  benefits  that  he  regarded  as 
his  rightful  due,  he  had  become  embittered  against  the 
President  and  resolved  to  "knife"  him  at  the  polls. 

Now  at  this  time  the  Island  and  the  Eighth  Assembly 
District,  on  the  lower  East  Side  of  New  York,  had  an 
interchangeable  population  of  migratory  fakirs,  bar 
tenders,  waiters  and  others  who  worked  in  New  York 
in  the  winter  and  at  the  seaside  in  summer,  and  McKane 
saw  that  these  could  be  organized  into  a  voting  element 
of  remarkable  strength.  For  New  York  was  then  a 
"pivotal  state"  on  which  politicians  kept  the  ever- 
watchful  eye,  Republican  above  the  Harlem  River  and 
Democratic  below.  Hence  the  phrase  so  often  heard  at 
election  time:  "He'll  come  down  to  the  Bridge  with  fifty 
thousand  behind  him,"  the  question  being  to  what  extent 
the  city's  Democratic  vote  would  offset  this  majority. 

All  this  is  so  well  known  to  everybody  who  has  ever 
taken  a  hand  in  political  affairs  that  my  careful  explana 
tion  may  bring  a  smile  of  amused  contempt  to  the  lips 
of  the  sophisticated.  But,  having  noted  with  amazement 
the  lamb-like  docility  with  which  this  vernal  nation  ac 
cepted  what  McKane's  band  of  fakirs  and  bartenders 


346  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

chose  to  give  them  in  1888  and  the  candidates  handed 
out  to  them  in  1920  by  a  few  politicians,  I  may  perhaps 
be  excused  for  telling  them  what  they  should  have 
learned  during  the  thirty-two  intervening  years. 

As  the  summer  preceding  the  election  wore  on,  it 
became  evident  to  the  Islanders  that  schemes  of  political 
import  were  afoot,  and  as  the  time  for  registry  drew 
near  intimations  were  conveyed  to  the  members  of  the 
floating  population  that  it  would  be  well  for  them  to  gain 
the  favor  of  the  Chief  by  voting  in  his  bailiwick,  a  bit 
of  courtesy  which  might  prove  reciprocal  and  need  not 
interfere  with  the  exercise  of  the  right  of  suffrage  else 
where.  But  no  hint  was  conveyed  as  to  the  side  on  which 
they  were  expected  to  vote.  A  few  days  before  election, 
I  attended  a  political  meeting  on  the  Island  at  which  a 
committee  was  sent  to  McKane  to  inquire  how  he  wished 
his  followers  to  vote.  They  returned  bearing  the  mes 
sage  that  he  would  let  them  know  early  on  the  morn 
ing  of  election  day  and  those  free-born  citizens  cheered 
for  fully  three  minutes. 

He  did  let  them  know  at  the  time  stated  and  in  no 
uncertain  voice  and  all  that  day  streams  of  voters  passed 
to  and  fro  between  their  two  places  of  registry  and  so 
swelled  the  Republican  majority  that  Cleveland  was 
defeated. 

The  election  of  Harrison  was  a  triumph  for  Coney 
Island's  boss  and  he  and  his  followers,  carrying  canes 
and  attired  in  drab  overcoats,  marched  proudly  in  the 
inauguration  parade  in  Washington;  and  when  the  at 
tention  of  Levi  P.  Morton  was  drawn  to  the  little  phalanx 
that  had  helped  to  make  him  Vice-President,  he  swept 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  347 

off  his  hat  and  bowed  his  appreciation  of  their  services. 
At  least  that  is  what  I  was  told  by  a  keen  observer  who 
was  present. 

But  McKane's  triumph  was  the  cause  of  his  subse 
quent  ruin,  for  it  gave  him  an  abnormal  belief  in  his 
own  power  so  that  on  a  later  occasion  he  tore  up  a  Su 
preme  Court  injunction  with  the  remark:  "Supreme 
Court  injunctions  don't  go  on  this  Island."  His  finish, 
like  that  of  nearly  every  dictator,  was  ignominious,  for 
he  was  sent  to  Sing  Sing  through  the  efforts  of  District 
Attorney  Gaynor,  who  in  so  doing,  gained  his  first  step 
in  his  advance  to  the  mayoralty. 

About  this  time,  having  attained  my  sixtieth  year,  I 
felt  justified  in  assuming  that  I  had  cut  my  wisdom  teeth 
and  began  to  realize  the  value  of  a  college  education, 
regarded  by  youth  as  a  healthful  diversion  and  by  mature 
age  as  a  fitting  preparation  for  the  duties  of  life.  I 
recall  my  school-day  belief  that  when  I  should  have 
mastered  higher  mathematics  and  the  Greek  and  Latin 
classics,  there  would  remain  no  more  worlds  for  me  to 
conquer  in  the  universe  of  learning.  Later  experiences, 
however,  make  me  certain  that  a  college  education  as 
a  preparation  for  life  is  inferior  to  a  post-graduate 
course,  following  years  of  worldly  experience  and  mak 
ing  clear  to  the  gray-haired  student  the  real  significance 
of  the  heterogeneous  mass  of  knowledge  he  has  gathered 
in  his  long  journey.  There  should  be  a  university  for 
the  elderly,  with  an  elective  course  for  those  old  enough 
to  know  what  they  do  not  know  and  wise  enough  to  know 
what  they  ought  to  know. 


348  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

The  desire  of  the  uptown  half  to  know  how  the  other 
half  south  of  Washington  Square  lived,  began  with  the 
advent  in  the  Eighties  of  settlements  and  slumming 
parties,  both  imported  with  the  approved  London  stamp. 
There  were  then  enough  loathsome  plague  spots  in  the 
town  to  provide  agreeable  diversion  to  visitors  of  the 
class  now  termed  "automobile  parties,"  and  a  foreign 
and  native  population  sufficiently  debased  and  ignorant 
to  command  the  sympathies  of  those  really  zealous  in 
good  works.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  poverty  no 
longer  exists  here  as  it  does  in  other  of  the  world's  capi 
tals,  although  the  myth  of  the  "starving  millions"  is 
sedulously  kept  alive  by  professional  almoners  to  whom 
it  is  a  means  of  livelihood. 

Some  time  before  the  war,  when  there  was  much  more 
bitter  poverty  in  the  city  than  at  the  present  time  of  writ 
ing,  a  few  wealthy  and  benevolent  gentlemen  resolved  to 
give  a  free  Christmas  Eve  repast  to  the  poor.  The  heads 
of  the  Salvation  Army,  whom  they  consulted,  entered 
heartily  into  the  scheme,  saying  that  they  would  gladly 
distribute  the  viands  by  their  fifty  cars.  The  food,  con 
sisting  of  hot  coffee  and  the  ever-popular  refection 
known  as  "hot  dog  and  roll"  was  to  be  supplied  by  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Restaurant  and  offered  without  money, 
price  or  even  ticket  to  whomsoever  should  ask.  Then 
came  the  question  of  the  amount  needed  and  the  Salva 
tion  Army  officer  after  a  brief  moment  of  calculation 
said :  "About  one  thousand  portions  will  be  enough." 

That  our  town  of  millions  should  contain  only  one 
thousand  to  whom  a  free  lunch  on  a  cold  winter's  night 
was  likely  to  prove  worth  asking  for  seemed  unbelievable 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

to  the  projectors  of  the  scheme,  as  it  did  to  me  when  I 
was  told  of  it  the  next  day.  In  London  it  would  have 
been  necessary  to  provide  for  fully  one  hundred  times 
that  number. 

This  episode  is  worthy  of  record  because  of  the  num 
ber  of  persons  who,  either  because  of  their  limited  in 
telligence  or  because  they  are  aiding  charity  on  a  com 
mission  basis,  go  about  crying:  "What  right  has  the 
millionaire  to  live  in  luxury  while  so  many  are  starv 
ing?"  The  plain  truth  is  that  save  in  the  case  of  those 
who  cannot  or  will  not  work,  very  little  bitter  poverty 
exists  in  New  York. 

I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  in  regard  to  the  various 
forms  of  vice  which  always  find  sustenance  in  a  large 
city,  especially  one  in  which  crime  and  some  of  the 
heads  of  the  Police  Department — not  the  rank  and  file — 
are  on  friendly  terms.  Soon  after  the  Eden  Musee  was 
opened,  word  was  conveyed  to  its  directors  that  the  music 
of  its  orchestra  was  a  source  of  annoyance  to  the  peace- 
loving  family  of  a  Police  Commissioner.  The  nearest 
Commissioner  lived  somewhere  above  Forty-Second 
Street,  but  his  hearing  was  so  acute  that  nothing  less 
than  fifty  dollars  a  month  would  deaden  the  sound — 
besides  which  the  Musee  was  in  Captain  Williams'  pre 
cinct.  The  linking  together  of  these  circumstances 
formed  a  chain  of  logic  so  strong  that  the  arrangement 
was  made  and  the  monthly  transaction  entered  in  the 
ledger  of  this  eminently  respectable  concern  under  the 
caption,  "For  the  privilege  of  doing  business."  Shortly 
after  each  payment  the  ward  man  would  appear  at  the 
window  of  the  box  office  and  remark:  "The  old  man 


350  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

is  your  friend'*;  and  any  delay  would  elicit  the  equally 
enigmatic  observation:  "The  old  man  is  kicking." 

My  own  opinion  is  that  vice  and  crime  can  always  be 
estimated  on  the  basis  of  the  city's  population,  the  laxity 
of  its  laws  and  the  extent  of  the  low-class  alien  colonies. 
There  are  just  as  many  burglars,  petty  thieves,  grafters, 
confidence  men  and  prostitutes  here  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  inhabitants  as  there  were  when  I  first  knew 
the  town,  but  there  has  been  a  constant  shifting  of 
quarters  and  methods  that  deceives  the  census-taker. 
The  "reform-waves"  that  sweep  over  the  city  periodi 
cally  have  done  little  save  to  drive  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  sin  from  their  flats  and  rookeries  and  scatter  them 
abroad  through  the  main  thoroughfares  and  into  re 
spectable  tenements.  Nevertheless,  reform  and  re 
formers  can  always  command  a  hearing  in  our  en 
lightened  community. 

I  am  careful  not  to  use  the  words,  "The  last  time  I 
visited  Sing  Sing,"  in  conversation,  because  it  encourages 
some  humorist  of  the  now  dominant  "American  Hee 
haw  School"  to  retort,  "How  long  were  you  in  for?" 
and  one  of  the  objects  of  my  life  is  to  exterminate  this 
form  of  diversion.  But  I  can  write  it  without  fear,  and 
I  do  so  now,  adding  that  on  that  occasion  I  strolled 
through  the  prison  with  that  splendid  executive,  the  late 
James  Connaughton,  and  held  converse  with  the  equally 
efficient  and  faithful  public  servant,  State  Detective 
Jackson,  both  of  whom  knew  so  much  about  crime  and 
criminals  that  they  were  never  invited  to  lecture  on  the 
subject.  As  we  crossed  the  prison  yard  Connaughton 
called  my  attention  to  loafing  gangs  of  sullen  convicts 


IE 

f-  2:4 


c  * 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  351 

and  said!  "Those  fellows  are  plotting  some  mischief 
but  what  can  I  do?  The  labor  unions  won't  let  me  put 
them  to  work  and  I  won't  lock  them  up  in  their  cells 
all  day  for  that's  cruel,  but  every  one  of  us  keepers  knows 
there'll  be  an  outbreak  one  of  these  fine  days."  And  not 
long  afterward  his  prophecy  was  fulfilled. 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  Connaughton  apologized  for 
the  low  class  of  criminals  then  under  his  control. 
"There's  nobody  here  worth  talking  about,  only  pick 
pockets  and  thieving  elevator  boys  and  such  like.  What 
do  you  think  of  that  pair  over  there  for  a  couple  of 
lifers?"  he  exclaimed  contemptuously,  pointing  to  two 
boys  who  had  been  sentenced  to  life  imprisonment  for 
throwing  a  train  off  the  track  on  the  New  York  Central 
Railway. 

Obvious-minded  philosophers  might  argue  from  the 
scarcity  of  great  criminals  in  Sing  Sing  that  crime  was 
on  the  decrease,  but  the  fact  was  that  all  the  worst 
cases  had  been  transferred  to  Dannemora. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FULLY  cognizant  of  the  widespread  and  feverish 
interest  in  the  chroniques  scandaleuses  of  the 
metropolis,  I  must  apologize  for  the  scarcity  of  those 
sparkling  annals  of  the  gay  life  that  readers  of  memoirs 
always  look  for.  The  truth  is  that  they  are  entirely 
without  the  grace  and  fragrance  that  cling  to  the  memory 
of  the  beflowered  and  bepowdered  dames  who  helped 
make  up  the  history  of  the  Court  of  the  French  Kings; 
nor  do  they  compare  in  interest  with  the  chronicles,  for 
the  most  part  unwritten,  of  modern  London  and  Paris. 
In  fact  vice  in  New  York  has  no  significance  in  the  eyes 
of  the  historian  and  concerns  itself  with  but  one  serious 
problem,  the  redistribution  of  those  "swollen  fortunes" 
which  our  Socialists  say  are  a  menace  to  national  liberty. 
In  comparatively  recent  years  there  has  grown  up  here 
a  distinct  social  class,  lying  at  the  outer  ragged  edge  of 
the  theatrical  profession  and  touching  that  of  wealth  and 
fashion  through  the  medium  of  the  infatuated  male.  The 
chief  habitat  of  this  group  is  on  the  region  contiguous 
to  Broadway  known  to  sophisticated  urban  dwellers  as 
the  "roaring  forties."  Here  in  the  great  net-work  of 
flats — "the  prettiest  little  parlors  that  ever  you  did  spy" — 
that  spreads,  like  a  gigantic  spider's  web,  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  ever-dazzling,  ever-beckoning  lights  of  the 
Great  White  Way,  live  those  who  compose  the  group 

352 


IN  THE  LITERAEY  SHOP  353 

known  variously  as  the  "keen  set"  and  the  "swift  push." 
In  nearly  every  one  of  these  ornate  flats  will  be  found, 
conspicuously  displayed  in  a  frame  of  purple  plush,  a 
face,  never  taken  in  profile,  of  the  Hebraic  type,  the 
portrait  of  him  known  to  the  frequenters  of  the  place 
as  "the  main  squeeze." 

Through  this  spider's  web  the  feet  of  man  are  ever 
straying.  Here  fortunes  wrested  from  Nevada  silver 
mines,  from  Pennsylvania  coal  fields  and  steel  mills  and 
from  the  New  York  Stock  Market,  melt  under  the  spell 
of  cheeks  to  which  the  rabbit's  foot  has  given  a  livelier 
iris,  and  that  of  eyes  bright  with  the  tender  love  that 
only  belladonna  and  the  hope  of  "winning  a  roll"  can 
impart.  From  these  flats  the  inheritors  of  noble  names 
have  gone  forth,  ruined  in  health  and  purse,  besmirched 
in  reputation  and  laughed  at  by  the  harpies  whose  claws 
have  stripped  them.  For  when  in  repose  these  faces 
show  neither  vivacity  nor  good-nature,  but  rather  dour 
discontent  and  sordid  greed,  and  a  complete  absence  of 
the  sense  of  humor.  The  only  jokes  that  excite  laughter 
in  this  group  have  as  their  butt  the  victim  despoiled  by 
their  ring-covered  hands. 

As  a  literary  field  the  "spider's  web"  is  as  yet  un 
touched  save  by  those  realists  who,  devoid  of  imagina 
tion,  write  only  of  that  which  lies  within  the  range  of 
their  restricted  vision.  This  is  not  because  convention 
excludes  such  topics  from  pages  intended  for  polite  read 
ing,  but  because  those  who  really  know  how  to  write 
fiction  are  not  familiar  with  the  life  that  clings  to  the 
strands  of  this  delicate,  but  powerful  web,  while  those 
who  do  know  it,  do  not  know  how  to  write.  Were  a 


354  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

novelist  to  study  the  subject,  the  myth  of  the  "gay  life" 
would  quickly  vanish,  as  would  the  romantic  flavor  of 
the  aphorism,  "Love  pardoneth  all"  that  enchains  the 
feminine  fancy.  There  is  not  enough  real  love  in  the 
whole  colony  to  pardon  anything  and  there  is  a  sameness 
in  all  the  life  histories  that  makes  for  dull  reading.  To 
this  rule  there  are,  of  course,  many  noteworthy  excep 
tions,  consideration  of  which  generally  leads  us  to  the 
more  diverting  strata  of  the  frankly  criminal  world. 

The  best  I  can  do  in  treating  a  phase  of  life  that  plays 
a  not  inconsiderable  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  town  is 
to  relate  a  few  anecdotes,  in  each  one  of  which,  it  will 
be  observed,  the  peculiar  humor  of  the  "spider's  web" 
reveals  itself. 


It  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  entertainment  of 
Weber  and  Fields,  while  always  noticeably  free  from 
anything  like  vulgarity,  reflected  much  of  the  spirit  of 
upper  Broadway,  and  this  spirit  was  wittily  expressed  in 
a  brief  dialogue  between  the  two  principals  in  the  cast, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  shouts  of  appreciative 
laughter  that  greeted  it  on  that  memorable  first  night 
when  it  was  uttered. 

"Mike,"  said  Fields  to  his  partner ;  "what  do  you  think 
of  this?  A  lady  friend  of  mine  found  a  pearl  in  an 
oyster  at  Rector's." 

"That's  nothing,"  rejoined  Weber,  whose  artless  mien 
and  simple,  serious  utterance  formed  the  basis  of  his  art; 
"a  lady  friend  of  mine  got  a  diamond  necklace  out  of 
a  lobster  at  Shanley's." 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  355 

A  group  of  attractively  garbed  young  women,  all  mem 
bers  in  high  standing  of  the  "keen  set,"  were  gathered 
before  the  cheery  gas  log  one  winter  afternoon  engaged 
in  animated  discussion  of  matters  relating  to  the  well- 
being  of  their  kind,  when  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
qualities  that  constitute  a  perfect  gentleman.  One  re 
marked  that  the  character  of  Mr.  Strauss,  who  thought 
nothing  of  opening  four  bottles  of  wine  in  swift  succes 
sion,  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  Another  declared  that 
even  loftier  heights  of  good  breeding  had  been  scaled 
by  the  donor  of  the  costly  set  of  furs  with  which  her 
wardrobe  had  recently  been  enriched,  and  which  had 
been  paid  for  from  a  wad  as  thick  as  a  telegraph  pole. 
It  was  then  that  the  hostess  of  the  flat  spoke:  "I'll  tell 
you  girls  what  my  idea  of  a  perfect  gentleman  is;  it's 
the  one  who  when  he  calls  on  an  afternoon  when  you're 
entertaining  a  few  friends  rings  the  bell  instead  of  using 
his  own  key." 


The  entrance  of  another  caller  diverted  the  deliberations 
of  this  council  of  perfection  from  the  genteel  accomplish 
ments  of  the  various  Chevalier  Bayards  of  the  "roaring 
forties"  to  a  favoring  turn  of  Dame  Fortune's  wheel, 
tidings  of  which  the  new-comer  was  quick  to  impart: 
'Isn't  it  nice  about  dear  old  Goldie?  She's  got  a  live 
one  on  her  staff  at  last,  and  you  know  she  ain't  as  young 
as  she  used  to  be.  You'd  drop  dead  if  I  told  you  his 
name.  We'd  oughter  all  write  an'  congratulate  her.  He's 
married,  too,  so  it  all  might  have  been  nice  and  quiet 
if  his  wife  hadn't  got  wise  to  it.  Isn't  it  disgusting  the 


356  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

way  those  rich  idle  women  go  nosing  round  everywhere 
looking  for  trouble?  We  girls  don't  go  looking  for 
trouble!  Gawd  knows  it's  always  chasing  us!  Well, 
anyway,  this  one  got  hep,  and  what  does  she  do,  but 
sit  down  and  write  asking  Goldie  to  come  and  talk  it 
over  with  her!" 

"Did  she  go?"  exclaimed  an  eager  listener. 

"Not  she,"  rejoined  the  other.  "There  was  nothing 
doing  in  that  quarter.  You  know  Goldie  makes  it  a  rule 
never  to  meet  the  wives." 


Two  of  these  tales  came  to  me  from  the  lips  of  Miss 
Ada  Lewis,  whose  sense  of  humor  is  much  greater  than 
that  of  the  ladies  under  discussion. 

Miss  Lewis  appeared  one  summer  in  a  piece  well  suited 
to  that  foolish  season  and  dealing  with  the  Cuban  War, 
then  in  progress.  A  number  of  women  calling  themselves 
actresses  had  been  engaged  for  the  minor  roles  of  "starv 
ing  Cubans,"  for  which  they  made  up  by  marking  the 
shadows  of  hunger  on  their  faces  and  assuming  the  rough 
garb  of  poverty.  Thus  attired  they  would  sit  chattering 
together  about  how  much  Maud  paid  for  her  sables  and 
what  Mr.  Blumenthal  was  going  to  allow  Gwendolen, 
until  a  call-boy  put  his  head  in  the  door  and  shouted: 
"General  Lee,  General  Weyler  and  de  starvin'  Cubans, 
all  up!" 

Cast  for  a  part  that  called  for  a  wedding  ring,  Miss 
Lewis  applied  to  the  one  woman  in  the  company  who 
possessed  that  treasure  and  curiosity  and  asked  her  to 
lend  it  to  her  for  the  night.  "I'd  let  you  have  it  in  a 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  357 

minute,   Ada,"    said   the   other   good-naturedly,    "but   I 
loaned  it  to  Nina  Farrington  to  rent  a  flat  with." 


After  an  entr'act  in  another  play  one  of  the  ladies  of 
the  company  said  with  a  great  show  of  indignation  to 
Miss  Lewis:  "Did  you  see  him  sitting  there  in  a  box? 
And  do  you  know  that  was  his  wife  with  him!  What 
do  you  think  of  that  dame's  cheek — coming  here  and  me 
on  the  stage?" 

One  evening  many  years  ago  I  was  assigned  to  describe 
for  the  Herald  the  doings  behind  the  scenes  of  the  first 
night  of  a  spectacular  production.  At  the  request  of  the 
press  agent  of  the  theatre  I  recorded  my  favorable  im 
pressions  of  a  plump  and  pleasing  young  woman  who 
was  making  her  debut  that  night  in  the  only  pair  of  silk 
tights  in  the  company.  It  often  happens  that  a  few 
carelessly  written  words,  cast  like  a  pebble  into  the  pool 
of  popular  thought  and  conjecture,  create  ripples  that 
spread  in  ever-widening  circles  over  the  entire  face  of 
the  waters.  The  first  of  these  ripples  appeared  the  next 
morning  in  the  form  of  a  rumor  that  there  was  "a  new 
front  in  town"  and  succeeding  circles  brought  increasing 
prosperity  to  the  wearer  of  the  silken  tights.  Grateful 
for  my  kindly  words  of  praise  this  lady  invited  me  to 
dine  in  her  apartment,  and  on  my  arrival  I  found  two 
gentlemen  awaiting  the  coming  of  the  hostess.  One  of 
these  was  a  Mr.  Leslie,  then  active  in  affairs  of  the 
theatre,  who  had,  as  I  knew,  done  much,  in  a  wholly 
disinterested  way,  to  secure  for  the  lady  a  better  engage- 


358  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

ment  and  help  her  along  the  route  to  fame.  The  other 
visitor  differed  from  Mr.  Leslie  in  that  he  was  of  excel 
lent  financial  standing  and  might  well  have  been  respon 
sible  for  the  rent  had  such  a  contingency  arisen.  Our 
hostess  entered  close  upon  my  heels  and  hastened  to  the 
kitchen  where  we  heard  her  rebuking  the  maid  for  being 
dilatory  in  preparing  the  meal  to  which  we  had  been 
bidden.  "You  ought  to  have  gone  out  and  bought  every 
thing  two  hours  ago !"  she  exclaimed,  "instead  of  waiting 
till  the  last  minute." 

"Ah  didn't  hev  no  key  ter  git  back/*  replied  the  servitor. 

"But  you  went  out  ten  minutes  ago  and  got  back  all 
right!" 

"Ah  done  borrow  Mr.  Leslie's  key." 

A  thick  silence  followed  this  inopportune  revelation. 


A  lady  of  my  acquaintance  whose  long  experience  as 
an  executive  in  a  business  house  has  given  her  the  habit 
of  terse  and  virile  speech,  received  a  call  from  a  young 
man  who  wished  to  look  at  the  rooms  in  her  apartment 
which  she  desired  to  sublet.  The  visitor  was  hatless,  and 
in  this  as  in  his  flowing  tie  and  rather  dishevelled  dress, 
revealed  the  earmarks  of  the  bizarre  element  of  Green 
wich  Village.  He  declared  himself  to  be  an  artist  and 
he  wished  lodgings  for  himself  and  a  friend,  the  best 
known  poet  south  of  Fourteenth  Street.  Having  inspected 
the  rooms  and  found  them  to  his  liking,  he  mentioned 
quite  casually,  that  the  pair  would  be  accompanied  in  their 
migration  from  the  Village  by  two  companions  of  the 
other  sex. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  359 

"I  have  no  objection  to  that  myself/'  replied  the  owner 
of  the  apartment,  "but  I  am  afraid  that  will  hardly  do 
in  this  part  of  the  town." 

"It  went  all  right  in  West  Fourth  Street." 
"Yes,  but  this  is  north  of  Madison  Square  and  such 
a  proceeding  would  be  in  defiance  of  a  power  that  you 
cannot  ignore." 

"We  don't  bow  to  the  conventions  of  society !" 
"This  is  a  power  much  higher  than  any  social  con 
vention." 

"The  law  can't  touch  us." 

"The  power  to  which  I  refer  stands  far  above  the  law." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  power  it  is?'1 

"It's  the  janitor." 

It  is  difficult  for  the  novelist  to  deal  truthfully  with 
this  phase  of  life  and  at  the  same  time  please  the  great 
army  of  feminine  readers  to  whom  he  must  look  for  the 
bulk  of  his  sale.  He  would  find  himself  confronted  with 
the  difficult  task  of  giving  at  least  one  of  his  heroines — 
if  such  as  she  may  be  so  termed — a  repentant  finish  after 
the  fashion  of  her  black-gowned,  white-cuffed  sister  of 
the  stage.  Penitence  is  unknown  in  any  society  as  well 
dressed  and  well  fed  as  that  I  have  indicated.  A  gas 
company  might  repent,  but  not  one  of  these. 


"Ah,  had  I  my  life  to  live  over  again  knowing  what 
I  know  now !"  is  a  theme  of  frequent  and  futile  specula 
tion  under  many  a  gray  thatch.  It  is  indeed  a  bright 


360  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

dream,  the  playing  over  again  of  the  game  of  life  with 
Fate's  cards  lying  face  uppermost  on  the  table !  To  fol 
low  the  long  trail  with  every  pitfall  plainly  visible;  know 
ing  which  friends  to  choose,  which  false  ones  to  avoid, 
and  which  among  them  all  would  next  fall  before  the 
scythe  of  the  Reaper!  To  know  how  the  stock  market 
was  being  rigged,  which  card  was  due  from  the  dealer's 
silver  box  and  which  horse  would  be  allowed  to  win; 
above  all  to  distinguish  between  the  love-light  in  woman's 
eyes  and  the  gleam  of  avarice  with  which  the  wisest  of 
us  are  deceived! 

It  is  a  dream  in  which  I  used  to  indulge  before  riper 
knowledge  taught  me  that  no  life  could  be  more  dreary 
than  one  weighed  down  by  the  disillusion,  the  sophistica 
tion  and  the  shattered  ideals  that  the  passing  years  heap 
upon  one's  shoulders.  To  live  my  days  over  again 
shackled  to  the  ball-and-chain  of  worldly  knowledge  and 
experience  has  no  appeal  for  me  now.  Rather  would 
I  retrace  my  steps  backward  from  age  to  childhood ;  from 
the  clutches  of  the  specialists  whose  skill  prolongs  joy 
less  life  into  senility;  from  an  age  ridden  by  germs  and 
microbes  to  a  simpler  and  happier  one  in  which  'twere 
folly  to  be  wise;  from  one  in  which  the  dollar  is  worth 
a  nickel  to  that  in  which  a  nickel  used  to  look  like  a 
dollar;  from  an  over-populated  city,  hideous  with  noise 
and  vulgarity,  back  to  the  smaller  town  that  afforded 
time  for  quiet  thought  and  in  which  crime  and  authority 
were  not  on  their  present  sharing  terms  nor  the  line  of 
demarcation  between  purely  commercial  activities  and  the 
practice  of  the  fine  arts,  including  that  of  letters,  as  indis 
tinct  as  now. 


IN  THE  LITERARY  SHOP  361 

Back  from  the  joyless  days  of  a  rigid  diet  into  the 
heart  of  the  happy,  foolish  years  when  we  could  feast 
at  midnight  without  thought  of  the  morrow  and  quaff 
the  cup  without  breaking  an  unwished- for  law. 

Many  a  time  has  fancy  led  me  back  along  the  well 
remembered  route,  joining  hands  here  and  there  with  the 
old  friends  who  spring  up — some  from  graves  dug  by 
John  Barleycorn — to  bind  up  the  broken  threads  of  in 
timacy  and  march  with  me  side  by  side,  smiling  at  the 
griefs  that  once  seemed  so  keen,  but  from  which  the 
deeper  sorrows  of  manhood  have  long  since  drawn  the 
sting;  picking  up,  now  and  then,  the  sweetheartings  of 
other  days  and  following  them  from  the  bitterness  of 
death  or  estrangement  to  the  splendid  thrills  of  love's 
first  awakening.  To  hope  and  to  believe  is  infinitely 
sweeter  than  any  realization  that  time  can  bring,  and  this 
journey  leads  from  sombre  disappointment  and  regrets 
into  the  old  glad  sunlight  that  gave  to  the  mirage  the 
semblance  of  reality;  from  the  knowledge  that  makes 
plain  to  us  how  little  we  know  and  saddens  the  thoughtful 
mind  with  a  comprehension  of  how  much  remains  to 
be  learned,  back  to  the  days  of  adolescence  when  supreme 
wisdom  seemed  almost  within  our  grasp.  It  is  only  by 
taking  this  long  journey  that  we  learn  how  heavy  is 
the  weight  of  care,  experience  and  worldly  knowledge 
that  time  lays  upon  us,  and  what  it  means  to  feel  this 
burden  slipping  off  bit  by  bit,  replaced  by  the  lighter 
load  of  hope  and  ambition. 

Thus  one  may  go  back  through  the  years  of  early 
manhood  into  the  unforgettable  schooldays  with  the  sap 
of  life's  springtide  running  stronger  and  stronger  in 


362  FORTY-ODD  YEARS 

the  veins;  back  through  a  boyhood  of  heedless  sport 
brightened  by  those  high  resolves  that  feed  so  greedily 
on  illusion;  back  at  last  into  the  all  too  brief  period  of 
childish  innocence  that  Nature  vouchsafes  to  us. 

More  than  once,  awake  as  well  as  dreaming,  have  I 
followed  this  long  trail,  and,  God  willing,  I  shall  follow 
it  many  times  again,  bridging  over  within  the  space  of 
a  few  minutes  the  six  decades  that  lie  between  the  autumn 
of  life  and  those  days  of  early  spring  when  a  parental 
love  that  I  could  neither  comprehend  nor  appreciate 
guided  my  uncertain  steps  as  I  ran  and  played  and 
shouted  in  the  wide,  shady  garden. 


THE   END 


ST  DATE 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORR 

LOAN 

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on 
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General  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


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'72021 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


